Viva Revenge
by Witchiepooh
Summary: Sequel of sorts to Friendly Fire, as Draco and Hermione plot EVIL revenge against their friends. Will include DHr, much silliness, and VEGAS!
1. Vegas, Baby?

Disclaimer: Nope, I don't own Harry Potter or any of these characters, though this particular plotline, for what it's worth, is mine.

Summary: Draco and Hermione have begun to plot bloody revenge against Pansy, Millicent (now Mitchell, as she became a he after Hogwarts) Bulstrode, Harry, Ginny and Ron after they caught the group eavesdropping on a very private moment. This is a sequel of sorts to "Friendly Fire" but if you're too lazy to go read it, all you need to know is that they're all friends, D/Hr have finally hooked up, and Pansy and Mitchell are betrothed. (And if you do want to read "Friendly Fire," you can find it by visiting my author page.) Oh, and this is a lot of silliness. You have been warned.

Ginny Weasley (she'd kept her name after her marriage to Harry, thank you very much) and Pansy Parkinson (who would also keep her name because who the hell wants to take on the last name Bulstrode? And Pansy Bulstrode? Bleh!) sat thoroughly engrossed in the latest issue of _Witchin' Weddings_. (It was a useful journal with important articles such as: "Don't be a Banshee Bride!"; "Stroke His Wand: Keeping the Magic Alive After the Honeymoon"; and "Wanton Wedding Night: 8 Spells to Turn Him On!"--Pansy had actually clipped this last one.) They didn't hear Hermione enter the kitchen of Ginny and Harry's flat (she'd flooed in moments earlier) and continued to pour over the magazine as she approached from behind.

She glanced over their heads for almost a minute before finally alerting them to her presence, "What utter rubbish."

Pansy shrieked, "Granger! Don't sneak up on people like that!"

"Oh, sorry about that," she said innocently. She looked around the table. Bridal magazines were strewn about, including muggle ones.

Both women had turned their attention from the article they'd been reading ("What Wizards Want") and eyed Hermione with caution. Neither had seen her since the "spying incident." They were absolutely dying to ask her about Draco, but didn't want to do or say anything to remind her of what had happened--as if she'd forget.

Hermione sensed their eager uneasiness. _Stew in it, bitches, she thought evilly_.

Ginny did have some idea of what was going on--simply because Harry and Malfoy had a business partnership. Several years after the war, Malfoy had helped Harry to buy-out Quality Quidditch Supplies from its former owner. It was one of many ventures the obscenely wealthy wizard was involved in, while Harry ran the shop on a day-to-day basis (not that he wasn't also extremely wealthy, he just enjoyed the shop). His dreams of being an Auror had shifted into nightmares in the aftermath of all the bloodshed.

So Ginny knew that Malfoy had seen Hermione a number of times since the engagement party, but only because of what Harry referred to as the "prat-o-meter." He'd casually give the ratings over dinner: "Malfoy was a solid eight today," or "Let me decompress, Malfoy was a flaming 15 today." (The meter officially went from one "giddy as a schoolgirl" to 10 "total prat.") Harry could usually tell when Malfoy had spent time with Hermione, as he rated about a seven under her influence. (Expected less pratness? Come on, this is Draco Malfoy we're talking about.)

But yesterday had been a record-breaking day for the prat-o-meter. Malfoy had shown up at the store after lunch, his hair mussed up (okay, maybe not mussed up, but one or two carefully placed strands were _blatantly_ amiss) and looking...chipper.

Harry had been so spooked that he'd called Ginny at work the second Draco left. "Sweetie," he'd told her, "Malfoy just left and he was a three!" Considering he'd never been below a five before, Ginny had squeaked in horror. Harry continued, "He also looked a bit out of sorts. I'm fairly certain he had lunch with Hermione. Based on his mood I'd say either they shagged or they have a plan to get back at us."

As it was, both guesses were correct. They had in fact met with the intention of discussing their plans for vengeance. Being an extremely passionate pair, the heated plotting had led to rather heated...well...you know... (Author blushes coquettishly.)

However, more important than the great sex (yeah _right_), the two had formulated the beginnings of a completely EVIL (as opposed to partially evil or kinda sorta mean) plan.

In fact, Hermione had shown up at Ginny's on recon, trying to figure out the best approach to take in setting the plot in motion. At the moment, both Pansy and Ginny continued to study her, anxiously waiting for her to say something.

"Looking for wedding ideas?" Hermione finally asked.

"No, don't you know I normally read this shite? Fascinating, really. Did you know that it's possible to make an orgasm last for the entire honeymoon?"

"Would kind of get in the way of the scuba diving, don't you think?"

"The what?"

"Never mind, muggle thing," she said.

"Well," Pansy said, while turning to another article in the magazine, "we're actually considering a muggle-themed wedding in Las Vegas."

Hermione stifled a laugh as she read the headline to the story Pansy pointed out: "Viva Las Vegas: Magical Muggle Weddings in Sin City," she paused for a beat. "You have got to be joking."

"Muggle chic is the way to go for pureblood weddings these days," Pansy explained without a hint of irony. "I heard Malcom Baddock got married at a muggle resort in America. There are wizard wedding planners who arrange everything."

"I think it's brilliant," said Ginny.

"Of course we'd stay in wizarding Vegas, but the actual wedding and the hen and stag parties would be in the muggle part," Pansy clarified.

"Of course," agreed Hermione, the wheels spinning in her head. The plan she'd hatched with Draco began to take root. If Bulstrode and Parkinson married in Vegas it could work into their nefarious scheme. If she had a mustache, Hermione would surely be twisting it about now. But of course she didn't! She waxed regularly! (I know what you're thinking, why get waxed when she could use magic to remove unwanted hair? The fact is, Hermione was addicted to certain muggle _habits_, and hot wax was one of them.)

* * *

Later that night, Hermione and Draco compared notes over dinner. 

"Muggle Vegas?" he asked, between bites of his falafel.

"Yes, but that's not all," Hermione said. "Apparently there's this wizard Elvis impersonator, calls himself 'The Great and Powerful Elvis' who officiates weddings."

Draco gave her a blank stare, a dab of hummus clinging precariously to his pointy chin.

"Goodness, don't pureblood wizards know anything about muggle culture?" she asked.

"Why should we?"

She reached over, placed a finger to his forehead and tapped, "Is there anything in there?" Then she moved it down and flicked the hummus away.

He swatted her hand. "Hey, I am not Weasley!"

"Don't insult Ron," she said. "Anyway, my point is, knowledge is power and you of all people should realize this." With that she took a nibble of her veggie burger. She still wasn't used to eating in front of Draco, which was just weird.

"Sure sure, so what's the significance of this Elvis bloke?"

Hermione delicately placed the 'burger' back on its plate. "He was a legendary muggle rock star from America. And since he died he's become an even bigger legend. Muggle Vegas is filled with so-called actors who make a living just by pretending to be him. He's probably one of the most famous muggles from the 20th Century," she said. "Anyway, by calling himself 'The Great and Powerful Elvis' this wizard impersonator is also making a reference to a very famous muggle movie, 'The Wizard of Oz.'"

Awareness flashed in Draco's eyes. "I've heard of that."

"I have it in my collection," she said.

"Right. So how does this help us make them rue the day they crossed Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger?"

She laughed, "Well the Elvis thing doesn't, I just find it rather amusing that muggle kitsch is now considered chic in pureblood circles. And the best part is they take it seriously. You should start calling yourselves thickbloods."

"Funny Granger. But once again, how does the Vegas thing work into our plans?"

She smiled rather maliciously. "Well, you know our little friend who I've enlisted for our mission?"

"Creevey?" Draco had reluctantly agreed that in order to be successful they would need outside help from at least one other muggle-born.

"No, the munchkin," she said impatiently.

Once again Draco's face was void. A chalky blank slate. Anger seeped into his voice, "Will you please stop throwing in snide little muggle remarks that you know I can't follow, it's bloody annoying."

"Yes, Creevey! Who else?" She gave him a superior look (which she'd perfected after years of practice) and continued, brushing off his anger. "Anyway, our photo-fiend friend told me he has muggle cousins who live near Vegas."

Draco's eyes lit up, "Are you effin' kidding me?"

"No, I'm not," she swore. "But it gets better. These cousins have children. Five to be exact, between the ages of two and 10."

Draco burst out laughing. At this point Hermione got up from the table and walked over to a nearby counter, grabbing a muggle photo from a neat pile. Draco composed himself (he'd nearly fallen off the chair) and watched her eagerly as she sat back down.

There was a baleful glint in her eye. "Here's the best part. The muggles have a vehicle that's used for family vacations. It's rather common, especially in America." She pushed the photo toward Draco.

He moved aside his now empty plate, looked at the photo and gaped in disbelief. The picture showed a group of rather slovenly muggles in front of what appeared to be some kind of large hideous metal container--with wheels. "What...is...that?" he said, not hiding the horror from his voice, almost wondering if their idea to get back at Potter, Weasley, the Weaslette, Parkinson and Bulstrode was too cruel. Well, almost thinking that, but not quite.

"That, my love, is a Winnebago," Hermione finished triumphantly.

To be continued...


	2. Strange Encounters

Disclaimer: Nope, I don't own Harry Potter or any of these characters.  
Summary: Draco and Hermione meet up with Colin Creevey to discuss their devious plan. Once again, this continues the story started in "Friendly Fire." I definitely suggest reading that first as it will make this nonsense easier to follow :)

"Tell us what you saw, Mary."

"Well Colin," she paused. "May I call you Colin?"

"Of course," he answered, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "Please, go on Mary."

"Well, I was taking Mr. Toodles--that would be my dog--for our evening stroll in the park. Mr. Toodles loves the park he does! And he's a good pup."

Colin Creevey--the host of the hit muggle television show "Strange Encounters" squeezed her shoulder, gently urging her to continue.

"So we're walking along the path near the lake, when I let Mr. Toodles off his leash," she stopped again, as a shadow seemed to fall over her eyes. "Usually Mr. Toodles stays right by my side--he's a good pup." She looked around nervously at the studio audience, the lights and cameras and then back to Colin.

Again, he nodded his encouragement.

"As soon as I let Mr. Toodles go he ran off into the trees, toward the lake. I went to follow and found him on the edge of a clearing, some distance off the path. He was growling and shaking something fierce." Mary's voice halted again, as she seemed scared to relive the next moments of her story.

"What was Mr. Toodles frightened of, Mary?" Colin asked.

She took a deep breath and shuddered noticeably. "First I heard voices and then a 'swoosh' sound, but I didn't see nothing. Then I noticed Mr. Toodles' little head titled to the sky. So I turned my eyes up to the heavens and I see...I see..." The tremors overtook her for a moment and she put her head in her hands.

Colin once more squeezed her shoulder (he had not let go) and she looked up at him. "Tell us, Mary."

Her resolve seemed to strengthen with his words and with wide-eyes she proclaimed, "Demons! Red demons flying and cackling like hellfire, as sure as my name is Mary B. Maplemore!"

The studio audience gasped (some genuinely, most trying not to laugh as a production assistant lifted up a sign that said "Gasp in Shock").

* * *

Back in Colin's dressing room, where he and Hermione waited patiently for the muggle-born wizard to finish taping his show, Draco showed less restraint than the audience members. In fact he doubled over laughing. "D-demons? That dotty old muggle thinks she saw demons?" 

Hermione looked at him sternly. "She's a muggle. What's she supposed to think seeing wizards flying around above her."

Draco just stared at her incredulously. "I don't care if she's a muggle, to actually mistake a bunch of young wizards playing Quidditch with a," and he gestured wildly with his hands and bugged out his eyes as he spoke, "_demonic ritual_ is totally daft."

Hermione would have none of his mockery. "Well, maybe if those foolish boys hadn't decided to use a public muggle park, or perhaps if they hadn't performed a half-arsed obliviate charm on the poor woman, Miss Mary Maplemore, an 80-year-old muggle who has never seen anything without wings flying would have looked up and said," she mimicked the old lady's high-pitched voice now, "oh look Mr. Toodles, its a bunch of young wizards getting in a healthy match of Quidditch."

Draco just laughed harder. "Mr. Toodles, oh Merlin. What kind of name is that?"

"He's a poodle," Hermione answered defensively.

"That's Mr. Toodles the fucking poodle," he snarked, and then the remnants of Draco's composure shattered.

Hermione decided to ignore him and turned back to the monitor where the show was concluding with Colin's end monologue.

"And so, we can only guess at what the esteemed former schoolmarm and upstanding citizen Mary Maplemore saw that night as she walked Mr. Toodles. Red demons flying through the sky? Large birds? The police found no evidence, save for a few pieces of straw in the clearing. Nobody really knows what went on that night at Primrose Park." He paused for effect. "But I can promise you this, my dear audience. I continue to put together the pieces and I assure you I won't stop in my quest to inform and enlighten you about this and other mysteries. For now, keep the lights on my friends, because you never know when you'll find yourself having a...Strange Encounter." The "dum dum dum" of dramatic music filled the room as the screen went black.

Hermione just rolled her eyes. "I can't believe the Ministry allows this rubbish to air."

"Because it's bloody hilarious," Draco offered. "Besides, muggles think its all a put-on. I heard the wizarding networks are looking to pick it up."

"I think it's awful how we allow defenseless muggles to get humiliated when we're the ones who buggered up in the first place," Hermione said huffily.

Just then the door opened and Colin entered the room. He was still as tiny as during their Hogwarts days and wore a red beret perched on-top of his thinning, mousy brown hair. He went over to Draco and briskly shook his hand, "Good to see you, mate."

Draco just stared open-mouthed. He hadn't seen Colin Creevey in years and certainly never considered him a mate in any sense of the word.

Colin then walked over to Hermione and got on his tip-toes to give her a chaste kiss on the cheek. "And you too, luv." He gestured to the bar on the opposite side of the room. "Shall I mix us some cocktails whilst we discuss your little plans for my Yank cousins?"

"Sounds good to me," said Draco, and he moved over to the bar where he grabbed a stool.

Hermione gave him a disapproving look (which he didn't actually see) before following and taking the stool next to his as Colin went to the other side of the bar. "What'll it be? Oh, and I only have muggle liquor back here."

"Just water for me," said Hermione, glancing pointedly at Draco.

"How about a shot of whiskey?"

Colin smiled and poured them their drinks. He passed the water to Hermione and had whiskey along with Draco. "To muggles!" he said cheerfully.

Draco smirked, but toasted. Hermione just shook her head, angry that the muggle-born could use the same people who raised him so cruelly.

Colin either didn't notice or chose to ignore Hermione's unspoken annoyance toward him. "So then, I've spoken to Marty and he's game to play along with your little revenge."

"Marty?" Draco asked.

"Yes, Martin, he's my cousin. Lives outside of Vegas with his wife and five children. Lovely people," Colin explained.

Hermione seemed surprised, "He knows about you, about us?"

"Yes, his sister is a muggle-born witch, the only other one in the entire family besides Dennis and myself. She's actually your age, was going to attend Hogwarts, but my Uncle Paul had just gotten transferred to a job in New York. She went to the Wike Broom School of Witchcraft and Wizardry instead."

"Wike Broom?" Draco asked.

"Aye, it was originally named after the American wizard Abraham Peasegood, but Yank wizards are big on corporate sponsorship. Wike built the school a kick-arse Quidditch pitch so they changed the name a few years back."

"So then your cousin Marty isn't a Yank, he's English?" Hermione questioned.

"Not really," Colin sounded sad as he said it. "They moved there years ago, he was very young. While Maisy was at Wike the family lived in a place called New Jersey. The place sucked the Brit right out of the poor sod. And of course he married a big-haired Jersey bird."

"What in bloody hell does that mean?" Draco asked.

Colin snickered, "Oh, you'll find out. Tricia is extremely Jersey and extremely muggle." He continued, "But Marty is a good chap, despite his unfortunate upbringing. He's sort of fascinated with wizards the way Arthur Weasley gets his rocks off over muggles. I had to move the phone from my ear because he was shouting so loudly after I told him that he was going to play tour guide for a bunch of magic folk."

Hermione forgot all about being upset over Colin's muggle-abuse show. The glint was in her eye again. "That's brilliant."

"Have you worked out how you're going to get them to agree to this?" And then he looked skeptical for a moment. "And I wanted to ask, if you could only hear voices, how do you know for sure who was listening in that day?"

"Well we heard Weasley's voice, no mistaking that. And I definitely heard the Weaslette and Pansy as well. If they were there you know Bulstrode and Potter were right next to the little...witches. Besides, I'm sure it was Bulstrode who planted the bug on me in the first place, the nosy bitch," Draco said confidently.

Hermione agreed, "They were all at the party. I know Neville would never do such a thing, he'd be too scared we'd find out," she reasoned. "And that pretty much eliminates Luna as well."

"What about Crabbe and Goyle, weren't they there too?" Colin asked.

"They know better," said Draco, in a tone that implied his assessment would not be questioned.

"Okay that's excellent," said Colin, reassured that he wouldn't be helping them to get revenge on an innocent party. "But that still doesn't solve the problem of how you're going get them to Las Vegas and together with my family of their own free will."

"Free will can be a tenuous thing," said Hermione, the fire burning in her eyes. "It can be manipulated, with a little help from some friends."

Draco looked at her alarmed. "Please don't tell me you're planning on getting somebody else involved in our scheme? The more people that know the more chance they'll catch on before we have a chance to nail them."

"Don't worry, I know two people who are experts at this sort of thing and better yet, they can be bought," said Hermione, though there was a slight edge to her voice.

"Please, Merlin, no," Draco pleaded, certain of who his darling sugarplum was thinking of and not happy. "We don't want to pay their price or owe them anything! Besides, would they betray their own blood?"

"I'm talking about Fred and George, sweetie, the Twins, not exactly the paragons of virtue," she said. "We have no choice if we want this to work. And I know they'll help us."

"You seem pretty certain," said Colin suspiciously. "Do you have something on them?"

Hermione blushed and tried to cover it, but Draco noticed. "Oh no. No fucking way."

"What?"

"You didn't. Please tell me you didn't."

"I didn't what? What are you implying, Malfoy," but while the words were sharp, she didn't sound convincing.

"I know about your dear Ronald, but Fred and George?" he shook his head. "Bloody hell, Granger, for a smart witch your taste..."

She cut him off, "Be careful what you say, Malfoy, or you may end up insulting yourself."

Draco and Hermione were now focused on each other, but Colin continued to watch in amusement. "Where'd I put my digital recorder," he muttered.

Hermione snapped her attention back to him, "We'll be able to get them to Vegas. That's where the wedding is going to be. As for the rest," she glared at Draco, "I'll talk to Fred and George. There's nothing more to discuss." And she nodded toward Colin as she held Draco's eyes, "At least not here."

Draco looked at her warily, "Yes, not here." And he grabbed her hand firmly. "Later."

Colin literally giggled. "Mmm-hmm, this is going to be fun."

To be continued...


	3. Calling in the Experts

Disclaimer: Nope, I don't own Harry Potter or any of these characters. This silly plot is mine.  
Summary: Hermione calls in the experts.

A/N: Thanks to those of you who have reviewed, it makes my day. I know this is just a silly little fic, but I would love feedback.

"Oy, Hermione! I hear you have a new favorite color."

Hermione spun around to see George Weasley standing at the entrance to Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, a curious expression on his face. She had been looking at the display window, working up the courage to enter the shop. She could tell the difference between the twins because of George's fuller face and (these days) shorter ginger hair.

She put on her sternest voice possible, "What do you mean by that, George Weasley?"

"Oh, just a rumor I heard," he was grinning at her. "Something about you preferring 'bland blond' over 'ravishing red' nowadays."

She steeled herself from his teasing, "Like my preferences are any of your concern."

"Well, my darling Miss Granger, that remains to be seen. After all, you're the one gracing my front stoop." George gave her an exaggerated bow and then opened the door. "Plan to come in, or would you rather stay out here and daydream wistfully of me and my brother whilst staring at our handsome mugs?"

Hermione glanced at the paintings of the twins through the glass. Fred's likeness winked at her, as George's smirked before disappearing behind a Headless Hat.

"Well?" George gestured for her to enter with mock gallantry.

She sighed (but not wistfully, not in the least) and walked through the door. Fred was behind the counter helping a customer. She found herself coloring slightly as he copied the action of his portrait moments before and winked her way. _This is ridiculous_, she scolded herself. _I've known this man for years and I have a boyfriend who I'm madly in love with, how can he still make me blush_? She took a deep breath and smiled at him, as George scurried in behind her.

George's lack-of-modesty not withstanding, the years had been kind to both Weasley men, replacing their boyish charm with dashing maturity. Fred had kept his hair long and the hint of grey at the edges of his red locks was actually quite becoming. Unlike George, who had settled down with a witch and married rather young, he was still single and consistently (along with Draco and Ron) on _Witch Weekly's_ "Most Eligible Wizards" list.

Fred finished the sale and as the customer walked off he leaned over the counter toward Hermione. "Why if it isn't the lovely Miss Granger. To what do we owe this unexpected pleasure?" While his lilting tone had a hint of a tease like his brother's, there was also more warmth and familiarity as he spoke to her.

She met him in the middle of the counter to give him a kiss on the cheek, but he managed to move his head slightly, capturing her lips in a quick peck instead. _Sneaky bastard_, she thought. "Hello Fred."

"Hermione," his eyes danced with mischief, as usual. "You look fetching as always. Though I hear I've got to be on my best behavior these days."

She blushed in earnest now then shrugged. "Well, it isn't like we're hiding it from anyone."

Fred walked around the counter and took her by the hand. "'Course not, and why should you? Malfoy may have been a twitchy ferret at Hogwarts, but he's turned out alright. I'm happy for you. Really."

"We both are," George added. "Though that doesn't mean the prat deserves you!"

"If he ever gives you any trouble..." Fred started.

"Makes you feel bad in any way..." George continued.

"Hurts you in the slightest..." said Fred.

"He'll regret it," they both concluded.

"Thanks, I appreciate it. Though you both know I can take care of myself," she looked at them in turn. "In any case, I was hoping to get your...assistance...in a certain matter."

The twins raised their eyebrows in unison.

Fred looked down one of the aisles to a young wizard who was restocking some merchandise. "Clarence, George and I have business to tend to in the back, mind the shop."

He nodded, "Alright, Mr. Weasley."

The twins led her to an office in the rear of the store. Magic had obviously been used in making the space much larger than it appeared from the outside. Over the years Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes had become a huge success, with branch stores in Hong Kong, Paris and New York and a significant mail order business. When Hermione had told Draco and Colin that the twins could be bought, she didn't really mean it because frankly, they weren't lacking in any capacity.

But she knew that they could never turn down an opportunity to take the mickey out of someone. It wasn't money they got off on, it never really had been. It was the joy they got in spreading harmless mayhem. The fact that Ron was one of the targets helped a bit. That Fred had a real soft spot for her helped even more.

Hermione and Fred sat down in plush chairs that framed a fireplace on one side of the room.

"How about I conjure up some tea," offered George, who remained standing.

"That would be lovely," said Hermione.

George took out his wand and with a few movements a tea service appeared. Hermione helped herself as George took a seat to her left (Fred was across from her, the fire to her right).

"So, what sort of assistance do you require?"

"Well, since you know about my situation with Draco, I take it you also know how Harry and Ron, along with several others, decided to listen in to our very personal conversation on the day of Mitchell and Pansy's engagement party," she said.

"Yes, that was brilliant," said George. He noticed Hermione's angered expression and quickly added, "Sorry."

Fred laughed. "But it was rather clever."

"Fred!" Hermione protested.

"Come on, Hermione, you had to know we'd appreciate that sort of ingenuity, but honestly we want to get the blimey bastards as much as you."

She looked to each of them in surprise. "You do?"

"Yes," they both said, a hint of more than just mischievousness in their blue eyes.

"You see..." began Fred.

"We know what they used to listen in on you and Malfoy..." George said.

"And little miss-mister Bulstrode bought the device..." Fred continued.

"From our competition," finished George.

"So luv, what exactly do you have in mind?" Fred asked.

Hermione then told them about the plot she and Draco had devised to avenge their stolen privacy, including Colin's muggle relatives and their Winnebago, a number of famous American tourist trap spots and Pansy Parkinson's plans to hold all of her wedding festivities--including the stag and hen parties--in muggle Las Vegas.

"The key to all of this working," she noted. "Is to ensure that once they find themselves in the...situtation...they can't just use magic--or even their legs--to get out. They have to be willing and therefore trapped for the duration."

"My my," said George. "Who ever knew our innocent Miss Granger had such a devious mind? I'd blame Malfoy, but I know he doesn't have the brain power to come up with all this on his own."

Fred smiled flirtatiously at Hermione. "I always knew she had it in her."

She brushed off his suggestive look. "So, do you think you two can help?"

"Definitely," said George.

Fred seemed to contemplate the situation a moment longer. "Yes, I agree with George."

She laughed, "When don't you agree with each other?"

"Over witches," he said, without missing a beat.

"Oh." Hermione's face took on a rosy hue again.

George, in a bout of chivalry, came to her rescue by getting them back on topic. "Okay then, so what we need is a binding magical contract."

"Yes," Hermione agreed, relieved to be able to focus on George again instead of Fred's searching expression. "But the real trick is they have to sign it without realizing what they're being bound to."

"Do you know where Parkinson has decided to register for bridal gifts?" George asked.

"I think she's going to use several places," Hermione said, unsure of where he was going with the query.

"No matter," said Fred. "They're all on Wizard Wireless, right?"

"Yes," said Hermione, beginning to catch on.

"Then we just need to plant a phantom programming charm to fool them into signing off on 'muggle tours'--using the registry could work in some cases, but we can tailor each charm to fit the user." He turned to George. "Know anyone who can hack into a WW account?" he questioned, but it was apparent from the way he asked that he already had someone in mind.

"But of course, brother 'o mine. Our old mate Lee Jordan," he said.

Fred looked at Hermione again. "Alright luv, you think you and Malfoy are up to a bit of spy work?

She squirmed in her chair with anticipation. "Tell me what we need to do."

To be continued...


	4. The Confrontation

Disclaimer: Nope, I don't own Harry Potter or any of these characters. This silly plot is mine.  
Summary: This chappy has a more angsty/fluffy tone. Not sure I succeeded as I find myself stressing out whenever Draco and Hermione get really um, serious :p

Hermione was both elated and on edge as she entered her flat.

On one hand the plan was coming together. On the other, she hadn't seen Draco since their near-miss row in Colin Creevey's studio dressing room a day earlier. He would be coming over that evening to talk. Hermione was so anxious she considered calling her mother to see if she could swipe a Xanax, magic be damned. Even Snape couldn't whip up a potion as effective as that dream drug to soothe the nerves.

But it was too late to reach for the muggle medicine chest, as Draco would be over within the half-hour. So instead of rushing to her mum's, Hermione made herself chamomile tea and changed out of her work clothes into a comfortable jogging suit. (Terribly misnamed a such since Hermione didn't even entertain the thought of actually using it for--gasp--physical exertion.)

She collapsed on the couch in her tiny makeshift living room, settling into her thoughts. Draco would want answers and she dreaded having to provide them. It wasn't as if she'd intentionally hidden anything from him. Neither of them had discussed past lovers. Of course there was some common knowledge, like his relationship with Pansy during Hogwarts, or hers with Viktor Krum and Ron. But all of those had taken place years ago, when they were still on the cusp between childhood and adulthood. They didn't really count.

Over the years since they'd been friends--the evolution from enemies to "frenemies" to friends had taken place during the emotionally turbulent years of 18 to 25 and they were now 33--they were aware of different people in each others lives here and there, but never knew about anything significant.

The truth is, there hadn't been anyone serious for either of them. With one notable exception: Fred Weasley. Hermione was pretty sure he had loved her once (he'd said as much), but it hadn't been enough. As for her feelings for him, she had cared very deeply--had believed it to be love at the time. But with hindsight, Hermione saw her feelings for Fred as more in the realm of "extremely fond" versus "in love." That said, he'd been her most meaningful adult relationship up until Draco.

A sudden knocking on her door startled Hermione out of her nervous meditation and she got up to answer. She stole a peak through the spyhole and sure enough, a rather surly looking Draco stood in the hallway outside. Tentatively, she opened the door to his inevitable ire.

His accusatory eyes rested on her briefly before he rushed inside, throwing his robes unceremoniously back into her arms and then planting himself on her sofa. She got the sudden sensation of what it must feel like to be one of his house-elves and cringed. However, rather than challenging his belligerent mood, she quietly hung up the robes, hesitantly sat next to him and waited.

Draco just stared at her for a few minutes, making several false starts at conversation before finally blurting out, "So, do you plan on telling me what happened between you and the Weasley twins or do I have to break out the veritaserum?"

Hermione was taken aback for a moment. "You think I was involved with both of them? What kind of tart do you take me for?"

He let out a breath, seemingly relieved that at least his worst nauseating nightmare was not about to come true. This revelation gave him the presence of mind to recognize that his assumption of a Hermione/Twins sandwich had irked her considerably. As such, he steadied the disapproving tone. "Alright, I shouldn't have drawn that particular, vile conclusion," he made a face for emphasis. "I'll blame the whiskey and the barmy presence of Creevey--now there's a strange encounter if ever I saw one. But you owe me the truth, so out with it."

Hermione began by carefully putting her involvement with Fred in the proper context. "First of all, this happened more than 10 years ago, before you and I were even friends."

"We were friends back then," he protested.

She gave him a sharp look. "You tolerated my attempts to save you, yes. But we were hardly friends."

"I considered you a friend," he stubbornly insisted.

"What we were to each other back then is hardly the point," she saw him start to open his mouth so she put a hand up. "What we are to each other now is important, which is why I'm explaining this to you. But I can't be bothered to try and defend myself for falling for another man a decade before you and I even considered being together."

He looked like he wanted to find a loophole to her argument, but it was frustratingly rational. "Fine, go on."

"I guess it had all started around Harry and Ginny's wedding."

"Which," Draco said angrily, "I wasn't invited to."

Hermione gritted her teeth but ignored his whining. "Anyway, Fred and I had always flirted, but nothing had ever happened."

"So what you're saying is the thought of your friends getting married gets you horny--thus Fred then, me now."

"Shut it." She was seething. "I don't want to fight about this with you, Draco. It's ludicrous."

"I'm not fighting, just making an observation," he offered. "So you hooked up with one of the Tweasel's -- how long did it last?"

"About three and a half years," she said quickly.

"Three and a half years? Merlin's balls, Hermione. That's no fling," he was leaning back on the couch now, methodically rubbing his temples.

Hermione went to reach out to him, but thought better of it. "Draco, please just listen to me. It was...complicated. We were involved but he was never really a boyfriend, per say. We were just sort of testing the waters with each other." And, as she recalled the waters had run pretty damn deep.

"Did anyone know? Did Ron know?" he asked.

"Harry, Ginny and George were--up until right now--the only ones to ever know," she said. She put a hand on his arm and he flinched slightly but--thankfully--didn't pull it away. "Ron and I hadn't been together for a while but there was lingering...awkwardness."

Draco's eyes were closed as if in deep concentration. He opened them and looked at her with bewilderment, "How did you keep it so quiet?"

"If you recall, I was doing my healing residency at St. Mungo's around that time. My hours were odd and so were his," she said. "That alone meant he was practically the only person to see me during that time vacuum. It wasn't that hard to keep it a secret."

He shook his head in acknowledgment. "Okay, so what happened?"

"It just didn't work out. It wasn't meant to be," she said. Hermione did not regret the experience itself, just the deception, as she and Fred flirted with the idea of something meaningful without ever quite grasping it.

Things had ended amicably enough when she realized that Fred wasn't likely to settle down anytime soon. She was starting to think marriage and family, but for Fred, being part of the Weasley clan --what with his siblings, their spouses, nieces and nephews--was enough family for him.

"And that was it?" Draco asked.

She looked him steadily in the eye. "He wasn't the wizard for me."

Draco still felt uneasy about everything, but the intensity of her brown eyes sent a warm rush through him. But it didn't completely quell the insecurity he'd felt since yesterday afternoon. "Things are good with us, Hermione?"

"Yes."

"I feel," he searched for the right word. "Fortunate."

"Then what's the real problem?"

He swallowed his pride and then confessed. "I'm scared of losing you to him...to anyone, really."

"That's not likely to happen unless you push me away."

"How can you be so sure? You had feelings for Fred, right?" he asked.

"'Had' being the operative word," she said, growing exasperated.

"And how do I know your feelings won't change again," he stammered. "About me."

"I don't know," she admitted. "Neither of us does." She threw her hands in the air. "You could decide I'm not what you want. This is all so new to both of us."

Draco's grey eyes burned into her. "These recent developments, yes that's true. But this," he gestured between them, as if tracing an inextricable connection, "at least for me it isn't new at all. I've felt...this way...for a long time. Longer then I realized. Well before your little episode with Triblehorn."

Hermione was speechless at his words and the obvious sincerity. "Draco, I've felt it for a long time too." She moved closer to him, fully into his personal space. "Which is why it's bloody ridiculous for you to concern yourself with Fred Weasley or anyone else." She averted her eyes. "Besides, if anyone should worry it's me. I see how other witches look at you, they melt in your presence and I know they're all thinking, 'what's he doing with her' or 'that'll never last.'"

Draco grasped her shoulders tightly, "Look at me, Hermione." She reluctantly lifted her gaze back to his. "Those silly bints don't mean a thing to me. Can you say the same of Fred? Or of Ron?"

"Of course they matter to me Draco, they're my friends. Just like Pansy matters to you," she said.

"She hardly counts. I never had real feelings for her beyond friendship and I know you can't say the same of either Weasley," he said, still not letting go of the doubt.

"Maybe, but you're different," she pressed. "Can't you get that through your thick, Slytherin skull?"

"How am I different?"

"I never loved them!" she shouted.

Her statement sucked the wind--and the absurd fight--out of Draco as effectively as a punch to the gut. Hermione was also a bit unsteady, cursing inwardly at her lack of restraint. She had promised herself that such declarations would not be uttered unless they came from him first.

Draco had released her and leaned back again. The silence stretched and Hermione felt herself getting upset by his lack of response--or his seemingly negative one. "Draco I..."

But as fast as he'd moved away, he closed the gap between them and captured her mouth greedily as his hands trapped her face in a vice-like grip. His tongue possessively parted her lips, hungrily devouring her, not thinking of anything but consuming Hermione in that needy moment. She responded to him with a powerful yearning all her own and they spent the next few minutes lost in each other, nothing and everything. A simple, but ardent kiss.

Finally, he released her. His voice was breathless and a little shaky, "I'm sorry."

Hermione titled her eyes up to his, confused. "Sometimes I just don't get you."

"Did you mean what you said before?" he asked suddenly. "What you implied."

She wanted to answer yes, that she loved him desperately and completely, that she'd never even had an idea of what love was before him. But she was terrified. "I shouldn't have said that," she choked on the words. "You're--we're obviously not ready to deal with that sort of thing."

"Hermione, are you daft?" Have you been paying attention at all?" He had moved his arms down, embracing her tightly and nearly pulling her onto his lap. Trepidation battled to squelch the hope in his eyes. "Didn't you hear what I said? That I've felt this way for...a long time. Did you think I was referring to friendship? I fucking love you."

He kissed her again, hard, then pulled back, his eyes now those of a child in solemn prayer. "Tell me, do you honestly feel the same way? Or do I need to find a nice cliff to walk off of without a broom?"

"You insufferable prat, of course I love you. Why else would I put up with you even a minute longer," as she said the words she was still scared, but it was mixed with a lightness she hadn't felt in, well, ever.

His smile finally broke through the clouds. "You realize we're perfect for each other, right?"

She rubbed her nose against his cheek. "Yes, perfectly insane."

TBC


	5. SPAM

Disclaimer: Nope, I don't own Harry Potter or any of these characters. This silly plot is mine.  
Summary: The evil scheme is set in motion. My apologies in advance for the ridiculously dodgy use of magic in this chapter :p

A/N: I have to give credit to Sunny June 46, author of the very funny fic Customer Service. It was in CS that I read about MMails, an idea I'm borrowing (and tweaking a bit) for this chapter.

"Welcome to Wizard Wireless Ronald Weasley. You have 43 unread messages. Please choose text or hologram format," said a toneless, but squeaky house-elf voice. (For some bizarre reason, when wizards adopted muggle computer technology, they decided to use the creatures as the standard for magically enhanced computer vocalization.)

Ron blinked a few times. He had just stumbled into his flat after a long day at work. "Bloody hell," he muttered, before clicking on the "hologram" option.

He glanced through the in-box. There were 27 magical mails (mmails for short) from his mother. More than half of these were photos of his nieces and nephews, the rest were forwarded witch profiles she'd sent him from "BeWitched/BeWizard" the "Number One Database for finding Magical Love."

Strictly out of curiosity, he opened up one of the profiles and was blinded by a flash of pink-tinged light as the magical hologram of a rather perky looking blonde-haired witch popped out of the screen. "Howdy, handsome! My name is Barbie Brimstalker and I'm a 28-year-old witch from Houston, Texas in the good 'ol U.S. of A!" She smiled broadly and Ron had to shield his eyes from the glare of her pearly whites. The hologram appeared to check Ron out before exclaiming. "Well, your mother sure wasn't kidding, you are one fine looking hunk of redheaded wizardkind."

Ron blushed and said in a mortified tone, "Uh, you met my mum?"

"Sure thing, sugar!" With that Barbie launched into a monologue describing what she was looking for in a wizard. "I love moonlit rides by broomstick and long walks on the beach. I like a wizard who takes care of himself! I workout five times a week and I expect no less from my man. I enjoy quiet, one-on-one time with my hunny, but also like to let loose! I'm looking for someone who will put me first, ahead of things like the boys and Quidditch..."

At that last bit Ron closed the profile (unceremoniously sucking Barbie's image back into the monitor as she let out a shocked "Eek!")

He immediately deleted her profile along with all the others his mum had sent.

He continued to read through the rest of his in-box. Another 12 mmails were forwarded muggle jokes from his father, while Alastor Moody had sent him three chain mmails. When Ron opened them a disheveled Mad Eye hologram ominously promised "painful death or at the very least bad sex" if he didn't forward each to 20 people immediately.

That left one other missive, from Hermione, with the subject line: Getting to Know You. (Please don't delete! Very revealing!)

Ron opened it and his bushy-haired friend emerged from the screen.

"Hi Ron. I know I don't normally forward these types of mmails, but I got this from a co-worker and the results were so interesting, I just had to share it!" she explained. "This is a list of personal and fun questions with my responses. You can listen and learn a little more about me, then put in your own answers and send them off to your friends and family. Be sure to mmail me back too, so I can see what you have to say. Have fun!"

The Hermione image then put her hands on her hips, waiting for Ron to respond.

He looked away. He had a sudden sense of uneasiness. There was something off about Hermione sending him this type of correspondence. It wasn't like her. He recalled how she'd sent him a lengthy rant about something called "SPAM" and not to fill up her inbox with codswallop because she couldn't be arsed reading tales about some wizard in Nigeria who urgently needed assistance transferring Galleons to Gringotts. Ron turned this over in his brain for a minute or two. His head started to hurt. He looked back at "Holmione" (who was tapping her foot impatiently) and said, "Okay, go ahead."

A tiny elf voice asked. "Please state your full name."

The image responded promptly: "Hermione Jane Granger."

"What time do you wake up in the morning?"

"Six o'clock -- The early bird catches the worm," she stated enthusiastically.

_(Ron rolled his eyes.)_

"What's your secret weapon?"

"If I share that it won't be a secret anymore," she said smugly.

"What's under your bed?"

"Boxes filled with old papers, bills, contracts and letters," she paused then admitted, "and maybe a little dust."

"Favorite flower?"

"Roses, because they're beautiful but have thorns."

"Favorite flavor of Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans?"

"Chocolate, of course."

"Describe your favorite pajamas."

"Cozy, warm flannels with little witch hats on them."

"Favorite spell?"

"Binding spells, because they ensure a wizard fulfills his obligations."

_(Binding?)_

"Morning person or night owl?"

"Definitely a morning person!"

"Owl post or MMail?"

"Since wizards got wise enough to recognize some muggle innovations are worth emulating, MMail," she said with a rather superior air.

_(Ron rolled his eyes again.)_

"Floo or Apparate?"

"Apparate. It's much more practical."

"Airstream or Winnebago?"

"Winnebago," she said with a mysterious smile.

_(What the?)_

"Confess something to the person who sent you this MMail."

"Remember that time I asked you to cover for me because I said I was ill? I was a bit under the weather, but I really wasn't _that_ ill," she offered sheepishly.

_(Hermione Granger, rebel, he thought sardonically.)_

"Name someone you fancied at school who didn't know it."

"Dennis Creevey. He was surprisingly brave and quite clever."

_(Ron choked.)_

"Do you believe in love?"

"Yes," she said with conviction.

"What's the last spell you performed?"

"Accio, to locate a travel book on the Hoover Dam."

"Muggle guilty pleasure?"

"The Aussie soap _Neighbours_, I'm utterly addicted," she confessed.

"Current mood?"

She had a gleam in her eye before answering. "Hopeful."

The Hermione image looked hard at Ron then said bossily, "Now it's your turn. Just click on the forward mmail button and state your full name after the prompt." With that the image disappeared.

Ron stared vacantly at the screen for a few more minutes. "Well that was weird. Hermione's gone completely mental." He looked at the forward prompt a bit longer before finally hitting it.

The house-elf voice came on again. "State your full name, sir."

"Um, Ron Weasley."

"No sir, your full name."

"That is my full name!"

"Please sir, you must include your entire birth name for the 'getting to know you' charm to activate, including your middle name."

Ron made a face, then said, "Alright then, Ronald Bilius Weasley."

"What time do you wake up in the morning?"

"As late as I can."

"What's your secret weapon?"

"I'm a lot smarter than you wankers realize," he said, already planning to forward the message to Fred and George, among others.

"What's under your bed?"

"Bugger if I know," he said, a slightly concerned expression on his face as he momentarily contemplated the possible horrors he slept above.

"Favorite flower?"

"None, I'm no poof!" he said defensively. (Secretly, he preferred daisies.)

"Favorite flavor of Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans?"

"Anything that's not dodgy, like vomit."

"Describe your favorite pajamas."

"My old Cannons singlet and boxers."

"Favorite spell?"

"Conjuring things." (By "things" he meant food.)

"Morning person or night owl?"

"Night."

"Owl post or MMail?"

"Owl post, all these mmails are bloody annoying," he said.

"Floo or Apparate?"

"Floo."

"Airstream or Winnebago?"

"Huh? Are these new broom brands?"

"Just answer the question."

Ron gaped. "Um, Airstream I guess." (It sounded more like a broom to him.)

"Confess something to the person who sent you this mmail."

"I can't believe you fancied Creevey. Were you daft?"

"That's not a confession," the elf voice said with a tone that nearly matched Hermione's know-it-all one.

Ron wracked his brains. "I listened in on you and Malfoy that time. I'm really sorry." Then he added quickly, "Harry made me do it!"

"Name someone you fancied at school who didn't know it."

"Daphne Greengrass, she was quite fit," he said.

"Try again."

"What?"

"You didn't like Daphne Greengrass. Try again."

"Fine, I had a tiny thing for Bulstrode," he said. "Before the operation!" he clarified, though it wasn't really necessary, since she'd clearly been a witch at Hogwarts.

"Ha! I knew it!"

Ron nearly fell off his chair, "What?"

"Never mind. Do you believe in love?"

"I think so."

"What's the last spell you performed?"

"Accio, to find my socks."

"Muggle guilty pleasure?"

"McDonald's Big Mac." (He got hungry just thinking of it. Well, okay, he was probably already hungry.)

"Current mood?"

"Bloody knackered."

There was a soft beep and then the elf voice said, "Well done sir. You may now send your 'getting to know you' mmail to Wizard Wireless users on your contacts list. Shall I go ahead, sir?"

Ron was feeling quite perplexed. Something didn't add up, but he was just too tired to figure it out. "Sure, go ahead."

There was another beep, this time louder, and the message was off.

* * *

Of course, what Ron didn't know was that the mmail was actually a rather complicated (and cloaked) binding magical contract. In order for the magic to work, it had just needed Ron to state his full name. Once he'd done this, it was officially created. And once Hermione and Draco worked out the exact logistics of their plan with Colin Creevey, it would activate on the dates they specified.

The document was first developed by Fred, George, Hermione and Draco. Then hacker extraordinaire Lee Jordan had magicked a number of stealth keywords--such as the name Creevey, contract, Hoover Dam and Winnebago--into the body of the meme Ron would see. It had duped him into the following:

"I Ronald Bilius Weasley, agree to the terms prepared by Hermione Jane Granger to be bound to the muggle Martin Creevey and travel--on dates determined by Ms. Granger--with Mr. Creevey and his family. I agree to visit several muggle landmarks, including the Hoover Dam and must only use muggle transport. To wit, a recreational vehicle known as a Winnebago. In order to fulfill this contractual obligation, I cannot perform magic for the duration of the contract period."

* * *

Draco heard the beeping sound go off in Hermione's bedroom. It was late (well past midnight) and they had both just drifted off to sleep.

He reached over and switched on her Wizard Wireless.

"Welcome to Wizard Wireless. Please inform Hermione Granger that an mmail binding charm has been submitted by Ronald Weasley."

Draco nudged Hermione in the side, "Wake up, love."

A wild head of hair that could have been Hermione (it was tough to tell), sat up slowly. She parted the waves that covered her face, causing Draco to smile (he was so whipped). "Wass goin' on?" she asked groggily.

"Your WW. Ron completed your binding magical contract. You're a genius, love."

A manic look passed over her features as she seemed to fully awaken at his words. She looked like one of those crazed, babbling, evil witches from a muggle fairy tale.

"One down, four to go," she nearly cackled with glee.

TBC...


	6. Always a Bridesmaid

Disclaimer: Nope, I don't own Harry Potter or any of these characters. This silly plot is mine.  
Summary: The last piece is about to fall in place. (Sequel to Friendly Fire.)

Everything was falling into place.

Soon after Ron had unknowingly given his consent to (as Draco liked to refer to it) "the mad muggle odyssey" Pansy had followed fast. The meme had been right up her alley, as there was nothing Pansy enjoyed more than talking incessantly about herself. In fact, she'd replied with none of the hesitancy that Ron had shown.

Harry and Ginny had been more of a challenge, but eventually they'd been conned as well. Now only one holdout remained: Mitch-icent Bulstrode.

A number of attempts to deceive him by mmail had failed, mainly because he wasn't naive. Usually Hermione would admire healthy skepticism, but at the moment it was rather frustrating. Mitchell had been the mastermind of the meddlesome quintet's privacy-breaching violation. If they didn't get him, they may as well not bother with the others.

She and Draco had decided a more personal approach would be necessary, which is why Hermione found herself sitting on a Saturday afternoon at Moony's--the quaint Diagon Alley cafe that Lupin and Tonks had opened a few years after the war. She was waiting for the arrival of Mitchell and Colin Creevey. In the guise of convincing Mitchell to hire Colin to photograph the wedding, she would get him to sign the magical contract.

Hermione was also hoping to get more specific details on the Vegas plans. Once everyone was bound to the agreement, the next step would be when and how to spring the "road trip from hell" (as Colin liked to refer to it) on their unsuspecting friends. The conventional wisdom was leaning toward creating a Portkey to trigger the guilty parties' "sentence" sometime between their arrival in Las Vegas and the wedding. The most likely opportunity would be the night of the respective stag and hen parties, when their guard would be down, thanks to the wonders of intoxication.

One thing the scheming duo had in their favor was timing. While the exact dates weren't set, Pansy and Mitchell had insisted that the festivities take place over a two-week period in June of the following year (the holiday season was just around the corner, so they had about seven months to prepare). That meant vengeance could be done, but not at the expense of the couple's wedding or honeymoon. Draco and Hermione wanted bloody revenge, but they didn't have a death wish. And interfering directly with the nuptials surely qualified as one.

* * *

Hermione was reading the _Daily Prophet_ as Colin arrived. He sat down next to her and whispered, "I've just been by the Weasley shop, and everything is set." Then he placed the faux contract in front of her. 

She glanced at it briefly, noticing the keywords that had been interspersed throughout. She snickered as she read select passages such as, "All photographic equipment to be stored in Winnebago Journey," and her personal favorite, "Mr. Creevey to be assisted by Franklin D. Hoover," (as in the Dam).

Her perusal of the document ended abruptly as Mitchell burst into the restaurant carrying a large portfolio and loudly throwing it on the table in front of Hermione (just barely giving her time to move the contract out of the way).

"Darling," Mitchell gushed, "I'm so thrilled to see you, I desperately need your opinion." With a flourish, he opened up the portfolio.

Hermione looked down at several muggle-style movie images. Or at least, that's what she thought they were at first. On closer inspection, she realized they were wedding pictures modeled on mostly famous muggle films. Among the counterfeit portraits displayed before her she recognized "Star Wars," "The Lord of the Rings," "Casablanca," "The Matrix," "Monty Python and the Holy Grail," "The Wizard of Oz," "Gone With the Wind," "The Big Lebowski," (an odd inclusion, she thought) and astoundingly, "The Beastmaster."

"Oh my god!" yelled Hermione, forgetting for a moment she was in the presence of pagans. "The fucking Beastmaster?"

"Is that a good one?" Mitchell asked innocently. Colin, who like Hermione had once seen the fromage-encrusted men in loincloths "classic" started to laugh.

While Hermione was all for seeing her friends humiliated, (strictly for revenge purposes), this was going too far. Not only since these ridiculous muggle rip-off motifs wouldn't be by her hand (and where's the fun in that?) but also because it appeared that everyone at the wedding had to take part. A quick perusal of the photos showed the themes extended well beyond the bridal parties. She looked at Mitchell with a sober expression. "You can't seriously be considering any of these."

"Why not?" he asked.

Temporarily distracted from her mission of snagging the witchard into the contract, she answered, "Because it's your wedding day! Do you really want to look back on it and see you were dressed as," she picked up the photo from the bowling friendly "Big Lebowski" and shook it in front of him, "The Dude?"

Mitchell shrugged off her protest. "Oh, don't be such a pill, Granger. Pansy and I have the rest of our lives to be proper or dignified. I want to celebrate our union, not act like it's a tea social. It'll be fanbloodytastic!"

"Well it will certainly make my job more enjoyable," interjected Colin, who thankfully reminded Hermione of why they were there in the first place.

"Right we'll get to that in a minute, first I need help narrowing down our choices. I've never seen any of these." He sorted through the shots. When Colin and Hermione failed to provide quick input, he glared at them impatiently. "Out with it! Do I go for—and he read from the captions, "swashbuckling space hero" (Han Solo) or would I make a better, "tantalizing tamer" (the titular character Dar from "The Beastmaster.")

Hermione groaned. There was no way she would ever put on one of the Sheena-like barely-there costumes that went along with the sword-and-sorcery fantasy film. Of those presented in the portfolio, she figured "The Lord of the Rings" provided the least offensive options.

She grabbed it from the pile. "I vote for 'ethereal elvish beauty,' (an Arwen ensemble) for Pansy and 'ruggedly regal' (Aragorn) for you," she suggested.

"Hmm." Mitchell considered. "I was sort of leaning toward beastie boy," he said evilly.

"Well you'd certainly have memorable photographs," noted Colin, still trying to steer him back to the contract. (Hermione was never a huge fan of the older Creevey brother, but she had to admire his tenacity.)

"Alright, I take the hint," Mitchell whined. "Let me see the contract."

Hermione perked up and handed it over. He read through it slowly (too slowly, causing Hermione to sweat nervously and bite her ever-maligned lip).

"What the fuck is a Winnebago Journey? Sounds expensive," he looked at Colin. "Unlike some people's boyfriends," he jerked his head toward Hermione, "I'm not made of Galleons."

Colin was obviously prepared for this question and the concerns about cost. "You want Pansy to be happy, right? You want it to be brilliant?"

"Of course."

"Well then trust me, I'll need the Winnebago. It's a state of the art storage facility. Without it my equipment runs a huge risk of damage. And if that happens, you're fucked. Not only would you be liable, but your lovely betrothed would be gutted and quite likely rip your well-paid-for balls off."

Mitchell winced. "Well, when you put it that way, where do I sign?"

Hermione breathed a deep sigh of relief. She was nearly dancing with excitement in her seat. Mitchell signed and handed the parchment over to Colin. They all stood up.

The co-conspirator shook Mitchell's hand, and then surreptitiously winked Hermione's way as he folded the contract and placed it inside his robes. "Well then, I've got to get back on set, we're shooting a new episode. Great to see you both." He crinkled his brow as if concentrating on something and then added, "I'd go with 'The Beastmaster,' you can't pass up a chance to see the witches in skimpy animal skin!"

"Creevey!" Hermione narrowed her eyes and would have fully chastised the little turd, but he breezed out the door before she had a chance.

She sat back down, slowly becoming resigned to the idea that even with the plot now well on its way to success, the price for payback would be high.

Mitchell was examining her closely, like a biologist studying bacteria in a petri dish. "So, now that we've got that out of the way, I have an important question to ask you."

Hermione stiffened. This couldn't be good.

* * *

While Mitchell Bulstrode's fate was being sealed and Hermione was wondering if it was worth the bother, Draco was sitting in his floor-to-ceiling window-lined office, composing a letter to Severus Snape. 

His former potions professor had dropped off the face of Wizarding society shortly after being exonerated for the death of Albus Dumbledore. (Snape had been able to prove he'd been acting under the orders of the old Hogwarts Headmaster, who had known of the Unbreakable Vow and was in fact mortally wounded before the killing curse was ever cast, on that fateful night long ago.)

Since his disappearance, he and Draco had stayed in sporadic contact, though the younger wizard had no knowledge of where Snape lived or what he was doing. It was widely rumored that he'd moved to Tibet, seeking solace in the quiet of a Buddhist monastery. For though he had been legally cleared of all culpability, he still felt responsible.

A knock on the door disturbed Draco from his task. "Yes?" he said, clearly put off.

His assistant Candice popped her head in. "Sorry to interrupt you, Mr. Malfoy, but a Ms. Parkinson is here."

He grimaced. What could Pansy want? He hoped there were no cracks in the devilish armor he'd constructed with Hermione. "What does she want?"

Draco heard the witch's impatient voice from behind his assistant. "Let me in, Draco, I need to ask you a question."

There was a lump in his throat, but he managed to speak. "Fine, fine. Show her in."

Candice nodded and opened the door wider, allowing Pansy to sweep into the room, fur flying. She gave Draco a quick kiss on the cheek and then perched dramatically on the edge of his desk.

She smiled at him lasciviously, giving him the once over, but not saying a word.

"On with it, Pansy. I'm a busy man. What's your question?" He hoped he sounded more bothered than anxious.

"Draco, we've been friends for as long as I can remember," she said, her tone almost sweet. "In fact, you're my oldest and dearest mate, outside of Mitchell."

"Right. And?"

"Well, since Mitchell became um, himself, I don't really have any old girlfriends."

Draco had a bad feeling. "Right. Get to the point."

She jumped up from his desk suddenly, moved forward and grasped his shoulders. "Would you be my maid of honor?"

"What?"

"My maid of honor," she said, her eyes pleading.

"For fucks sake, why don't you ask Granger? Do I look like a maid?" (For some reason he always reverted back to her last name when in the presence of Slytherins.)

Pansy mulled over his question for a moment. "Honestly, I considered her. But Mitchell called dibs, they've been friends much longer."

Draco's eyes widened. "Are you saying?"

She smirked, "Yup, Mitchell's asking your girlfriend to be his best man."

He nearly hooted (but not quite, because Malfoy's never hoot). "Fine, just don't ask me to wear a bloody dress."

"I wouldn't dream of it," she gushed. "Actually, we're leaning toward the loincloth."

**A/N:** So there you have it, the stage is pretty much set for Vegas. I will probably write one or two more pre-Vegas segments, but we'll get there soon. I did have one question to those of you who have been reading this. Regarding the muggle-themed wedding, I am still undecided on which movie to choose (though we know which way Pansy and Mitchell are leaning). If you have any thoughts on the matter, please share them. By the way, if you are unfamiliar with "The Beastmaster," I recommendlooking it up at IMdB (I tried to post the linkto a fan site here, but it doesn't work)...I don't know if Brits are even aware of this film, so my use of it may be off, but I just couldn't resist.

Also, I'd like to send out a thanks to Chanteur Dombre, from LJ for coming up with the Mitchell/Millicent name combo of "Mitch-icent." Thanks!


	7. Damnable Doubt

Disclaimer: Nope, I don't own Harry Potter or any of these characters. This silly plot is mine.  
Summary: Fred wakes up to his blunder. (Sequel to Friendly Fire.)

There was something different about Hermione.

Whatever it was, it made Fred Weasley feel something he hadn't felt in a long time, if ever. Regret.

And another truly discomfiting emotion: envy.

Rather than dwell on these two foreign feelings, the not-so-practical redhead pondered the witch's transformation. Hair? Relatively the same, though a bit more controlled then when they were younger. Eyes? Their amber seemed to glow more and grow deeper through the years. Complexion? Smooth and youthful, with no signs of aging. Posture? Straighter and slightly more confident. Yes, overall she had truly come into her beauty.

Yet he recognized it wasn't anything physical. Or, at least her outward appearance was only a small part of it. Something had changed inside Hermione.

Fred looked at the towhead hanging by her elbow. No, it can't be him. It can't.

It isn't that he disliked Draco. On the contrary, he found him to be a likable git (versus estranged brother Percy, a wholly unlikeable one). Sure the prat didn't come close to deserving his Hermione...wait, where the hell did _that_ come from? His Hermione? Get a grip, man.

As if he'd said it out loud (and he didn't, no way) Draco glanced toward him, expression unreadable. Scratch that, Fred knew exactly what Mr. Shiny Hair was thinking: Too late, arsehole. The statute of limitations on Ms. Hermione Granger has run out, fucker. She's mine and don't you forget it.

_Fuck_.

It was a good thing the pub was noisy, it helped to obscure the tension between the two wizards. Hermione was smiling drunkenly, quite unaware of it as she and Colin Creevey lined up more shots of tequila. (Being in a muggle establishment, firewhiskey was not an option.)

The conspirators were celebrating their triumph--the plan unstoppable now--and as queen among them, she stood in the vortex of their victory. Who knew, she thought to herself, who could ever imagine that someone like her could be standing (well, more like leaning on the edge of falling) surrounded by five men (George Weasley and Lee Jordan rounded out the group) who admired her and looked up to her. Well technically, only Creevey looked up to her, the others were taller. But never mind that, this was Hermione Granger. Little miss know-it-all, the bushy-haired swot.

Oh, it wasn't like she hadn't commanded attention from wizards before. But in all the years that she played a point in Harry and Ron's triangle, the focus was never really on her. It was always Harry Potter, and rightfully so. She knew her role and she performed it without missing a beat. But now, as silly as this scheme really was, it was hers. And more importantly, they knew it. They respected her. She was the main angle of the um, hexagon. Alright, perhaps that wasn't geometrically possible...but...ah fuck it, "To bloody revenge!" she proclaimed for about the twentieth time that night, clinking glasses with Creevey (the little bugger could pound the shots) before downing another round of ta-kill-ya.

She stumbled a bit afterward, pressing more heavily against Draco whose arm had circled around her (possessively, though she didn't notice). She smiled up at him stupidly. "Tanks." He looked so cute and fluffy. Okay, maybe not fluffy but there was something soft about him. How did this happen, she wondered and then asked it aloud, somewhat incoherently. "How dis 'appen?"

He hadn't been looking at her, but now turned his glance downward. He didn't answer with words, just moved in and captured her lips with his own. Hermione was already too pissed up to match his passion and giggled instead.

George Weasley happened to glance at his brother in that moment and saw a look of...oh bloody fucking hell. He tried to send out that twins vibe, all "Wonder Twins" and shit. Come on arsehole, over here, over _here_ dammit. But the idiot only had eyes for the beauteous boozed up brunette. Yeah, George wasn't dumb or blind, he knew what his brother had seen in Hermione. And he also realized where his biological other half had gone completely wrong. Instead of recognizing that she was special, that it wasn't the same as mum or dad or Bill or Charlie or Ginny or anyone else in their voluminous family, Fred had taken Hermione for granted.

He recalled how they'd talked about it after the breakup. "Why should I be upset," Fred had reasoned at the time. "She's family and nothing will ever change that." George had tried to explain that yes, she may be family, but no it wasn't the same. And now, watching her with Malfoy, he saw the awareness finally click into place in his brother's eyes.

Fred sighed forlornly, like a lustful maiden held captive in a convent. He was genuinely happy for Hermione. He really was. But...but...he was contrite over the fact that _he_ wasn't the reason for her contentment. He took a sip of the beer he'd been nursing and tasted the bitterness of his blunder. (Well, truthfully it was the bitterness of warm, stale beer, but anyway...) Continuing to ignore his telepathic twin, he walked toward the lucky bastard and his witch.

"So Hermione, what sort of plans do you have for Bulstrode's stag party?" he asked.

She grinned at him with glassy eyes and un-spooled herself from Draco's arm. Instead of answering the question, she jumped into his arms and squealed, "Freddy!"

While Fred winced at the butchering of his name, his spirits were lifted by the warmth of her inebriated embrace. Draco looked as if he was on the verge of a conniption, but then Hermione pulled away and proceeded to accost all of the wizards, including a rather annoyed Lee Jordan, who had been working his charm on a pretty muggle. Draco peeled her off him as Lee nodded his thanks.

Hermione pushed him away, "Whoa, missster," she slurred, her hand against his chest for balance. She seemed to clear her head and after a moment moved toward the bar and announced, "'nuther round!"

Before he'd had a chance to react, Draco watched Fred swoop in by her side and take hold of her elbow. "I think you've had enough, luv."

Draco gritted his teeth and moved to Hermione's other side, grasping her arm.

"Bollocks," muttered George, who had been anxiously observing the interplay. He had to do something before the two wizards pulled the poor witch apart.

He walked over. "I think Fred's right, better take her home, Draco." He looked pointedly at his brother, whose eyes filled with undisguised anger. He responded without words, giving a look which conveyed, "sorry, but this is for your own good."

Fortunately, Fred picked up on it and a jolt awareness of what he'd been doing shot through him. He released Hermione's arm. She remained oblivious to the struggle and patted him affectionately on the chest, "awww, iss good to be surrounded by the men I lurve." Fred's heart involuntarily quickened its pace. She was completely twisted, but what if there was more meaning to the words? Draco, on the other hand, felt his own heart sink a bit, also wondering at the underlying ramifications.

He tried to shake off his insecurity. _She loves me. She loves me. She loves me._ He repeated it in his mind like a mantra.

"Right then," interrupted George. "We trust you can get her home safely."

Draco nodded. Before Hermione had to a chance to launch into another round of hugs, he said quick goodbyes to the others and commandeered her to the front door.

For a moment it looked as if Fred would follow them out, but George stepped in front of him. "We need to have a little chat, brother mine."

* * *

It was raining when Draco and Hermione emerged from the bar. He wrapped her up inside his cloak and hurried them to a floo point (neither sober enough for apparation). Unfortunately, it was quite a distance from the pub, so they were soaked to the bone by the time Draco announced, "Malfoy Manor!"

As they stepped out of the fireplace and into his bedroom, Hermione shivered violently, the cold starting to sober her up. Draco led her to the bed and undressed her quickly. It wasn't in a sexual way, but more like a concerned parent taking care of his charge. He cast a warming charm on her as he urged her under the covers. "There you go, love, nice and toasty." Her teeth still chattered a bit, but she smiled at him sleepily.

A moment later he was out of his own wet clothes and snuggling in beside her. He held her gently, kissing her forehead as the last of her tremors seemed to subside. "Better?"

She settled into the crook of his arm. "Perrrrfect," she sighed contentedly.

Maybe, he thought, there was no reason for him to worry about the Tweasle. He tightened his hold on her, relishing in the warmth that came both from the nearness of her body and the blood that flowed inside. _She loves me._

"The twins looked nice tonight, dontcha think," she mumbled.

His heart constricted painfully as his blood seemed to boil with anger and freeze simultaneously. He took a calming breath. Hermione's out of it, she doesn't even know what she's saying, he thought. And she said "twins" not Fred. It was an innocuous remark, no need to overreact. She loves _me_.

But no matter how many times he repeated the mantra, he was seized with lingering doubt. Long after she'd fallen asleep he held her purposefully. If somehow that redheaded prankster had awakened old feelings in her, so be it. She was his now. He wouldn't let her go.

* * *

George looked sternly at his twin. "You can't use a time turner on this one."

"I know," whined Fred. "I just..."

"Well forget it."

"But..."

"No. You had your chance and you buggered it up," he said firmly.

"But Malfoy? Come on! We both know she can do better."

"Maybe," George conceded. "But that's not for you to decide."

"I can make her happy," he protested. At the look on George's face he quickly added, "Not saying Malfoy doesn't. But she's supposed to be with one of us. If I hadn't been so bloody stupid she'd probably be with me right now."

"You can't change the past."

"No, you're quite right," he said. "But that doesn't mean I can't change the future."

George narrowed his eyes.

"I'm not saying I'll steal her from...him. Just make it clear to her that she has a choice."

He shook his head. "You'll only end up hurt. I don't want to be harsh, but she's clearly in love with Malfoy."

Fred seemed to digest his words. On some level he knew George was right, that he had to let go. Or, more accurately, he had already let go, long ago, and there was no way to amend the situation. But since Hermione had shown up in the shop that day asking for their help, they'd spent more time together then they had in years. Maybe he'd ballsed up before, but that didn't mean he'd forfeited his right to try again. She cared for him, he was certain of it. And from the jealous looks Malfoy had given him all night, the other wizard knew it too. If things were meant to work out with Hermione and Malfoy, well he'd be a man and accept it. But to just turn away without any kind of a fight? Her happiness was of the utmost importance to him, yet he wanted--no needed--her to know that Malfoy wasn't the only option.

George saw the steely resolve come over his normally laid-back brother. "That's the way it is then?"

His voice was resigned,"'fraid so."

A/N: So soon to Vegas. And don't stress, this is a Draco/Hermione story, not Fred/Hermione.


	8. Margaritaville

Disclaimer: Nope, I don't own Harry Potter or any of these characters. This silly plot is mine.  
Summary: Draco and Hermione work out last minute details as the gang settles into Las Vegas. (Sequel to Friendly Fire.)

Draco was wasting away; there was no doubt about it, especially if he had to listen to one more fucking song by the annoying muggle arsehole who currently threatened the sanctity of his precious eardrums. Salazar's bloody bollocks, where the hell was Hermione? The two were meeting to go over last minute details for the next evening's stag and hen festivities. He estimated the usually punctual Hermione was at least an hour late. (Actually, it was closer to 20 minutes, but every minute seemed like four to the irate wizard.)

He thought about going outside again, but he'd forgotten his wand in the hotel room and couldn't cast a cooling charm to combat the heat. And let's be clear, it was bleeding hot. How did these freaks deal with it? Less than a minute and he felt like a dead insect plastered on the glass exterior of one of those car thingies, its entrails frying in the sun.

Inside, he was suffocating under layers of banality. The incessant so-called-music was the soundtrack to his misery as he found himself surrounded by drunk, smelly, disgusting muggles with their loud, obnoxious voices and their hideous clothing (a man nearby wore a straw hat and some kind of awful multi-colored button-down that looked like the mess on the floor of a loo after a night of binge drinking). Draco caught the lyrics to the current crapola, something about a "Cheeseburger in Paradise" and he laughed maniacally. Paradise? This place made the dungeons of Malfoy Manor seem cozy and hospitable. A nice Crucio was like a massage at the spa compared to this torture.

Just as his patience was about to run out completely (well okay, he never had any to start) Hermione walked in looking relaxed and utterly carefree. Draco was all set to launch into a whiny tirade, but the words got trapped in his throat as he noticed her unbelievably fetching appearance. Her naturally messy curls were pulled up in a loose ponytail, ringlets framing her face. She wore a short spaghetti-strap blue sundress and beige sandals on her nail-polished feet. The look accentuated her lovely figure: long legs, slim waist, perfectly proportioned breasts. That's right, she was a total fanfic hottie, despite the fact that she never worked out at the gym and ate all the fried food her little heart desired. _Bitch_.

Several of the bumbling, Hawaiian-shirt clad tourists that crowded the establishment stared, their tongues unfurled like cartoon characters. Draco felt a flush of manhood pride as she came up and favored him with a soft kiss. _Uh huh, suckas, this my woman! Ma bitch, ma ho! Damn straight!_ (For some reason the author can't explain, traveling to Las Vegas had transformed the very white, very British Draco into the pimptastic Bishop Don Magic Juan from that family classic: "Pimps Up, Ho's Down".)

He was so lost in his macho-reverie that he didn't realize Hermione had started talking until he felt a sharp jab in the ribs. "Earth to Draco!"

"What's the haps, beautiful baby?" he asked, morphing into his best cool-daddy-o persona. (In preparation for their trip to Vegas, Hermione had fed him a steady diet of muggle films highlighting the sun-drenched city: Everything from The Rat Pack to "Swingers.")

"I was explaining to you why I was late, Joey Bishop."

"Hey, I'm Sinatra!" At the insult his prickly mood returned. "And yeah, what took you so long? American muggles are barbaric. I need a shower."

"Whatever," she blew off his complaints. "As I was saying, I ran into Fred just before I crossed over from the wizard part of town. He needed my input on the portkeys."

Hearing that it was Fred who caused the delay only enhanced Draco's crankiness. The Weasley prat had insinuated himself more and more into Hermione's life over the last few months. What made matters worse was that the witch was completely blind to it, refusing to believe the redhead's interest in her had rekindled. And any attempt to convince her was a sure way to get into a terrific row. Draco would be very glad once their mission was accomplished and he had Hermione all to himself... or at least more to himself. As enjoyable as scheming could be, it consumed the early stages of their relationship.

He sometimes worried about what they'd have once the thirst for revenge was quenched. If they couldn't spend hours in bed plotting, laughing, debating and fucking, would she lose interest? And would Fred, with his happy-go-lucky act, be waiting to pounce? The brilliance of the wizard's ploy to capture Hermione was that he wasn't actively trying to take her away. So he'd never appear to be the bad guy, he'd just be the nice bloke she'd run to once she realized Draco was fun for a fling, but not someone she could settle down with in the long-term.

It was this part of Draco—holding on to the lingering insecurities of youth that he'd never fully dealt with—that questioned Hermione's love. And his own doubts were like a virus that took hold of her, casting a vague shadow. It wasn't that their relationship was bad, but the subtle uncertainty haunted them both from time to time.

"What sort of input did he need?" Draco asked. He tried to sound as casual as possible.

Judging by her unruffled response, it worked. "He wanted to make sure we were all set with the coordinates," she said.

"And are we?"

"All systems go." Hermione beamed at him in a way that made him want to throw her over his shoulder and carry her back to the hotel. Okay, technically he had the urge to do that the moment she walked in, but now it was even stronger.

"Can we get out of here? Go back to the suite and order room service?" He winked as he said it, just in case she didn't catch his meaning. Then he reached over and teased one of her dangling curls.

Hermione slapped his hand away. "Later." Draco pouted, but she ignored it. "We should find a spot for tomorrow night's meeting point. And we have to arrange the limousines. I don't want you getting lost."

His eyes darted warily across the room. "Well, I'll agree with you there. This place is dodgy."

"Don't worry, I'll protect your maiden virtue." She gave him a firm pat on the rear and then took hold of his arm, "Come on, let's go."

* * *

While Draco and Hermione performed their respective duties as "Maid of Honor" and "Best Man," the rest of the early arrivals toured the muggle city. The wizard part of town really only served as a place for magic folk to crash after excessively ribald behavior in Vegas proper. 

"Bloody hell, the house-elves at Hogwarts wore more clothing," said an awestruck Ron, admiring the copious amounts of flesh displayed by female muggles wherever he looked. He was walking along the Vegas Strip with Harry and Neville. His eyes widened with excitement, "Oy! It's that Elvish bloke!"

Harry sniggered, "Um, that's Elvis not Elvish." Sure enough, a fully decked-out pompadoured impersonator was strumming a guitar and swinging his hips on the street corner.

Ron was positively beside himself. "Take my picture with him!" he pleaded. He ran up next to the pseudo-King, a goofy grin on his face. Elvis nodded as if to say, "Thank-you-very-much" while doing a soulful rendition of "Love me Tender."

Harry laughed after he snapped the photo. "If you get this excited over Elvis, wait until you see the all-you-can-eat buffets."

Ron's eyes glazed over. "All you can eat?"

* * *

Meanwhile, Ginny, Pansy and Luna were discovering the "magic" of muggle credit cards at the Forum Shops in Caesars Palace. (About a month later the respective wizards in their lives would painfully regret the decision to opt for "convenient" muggle plastic.) Pansy literally cheered each time the card went through. Ginny was less reckless, having been warned by Harry to think before she charged. Not that it helped much since she got caught up in the buying frenzy with her friends. 

After more than an hour in Versace, the three staggered under the weight of their purchases and settled down for lunch at Spago.

"Any idea what sort of debauchery your Maid of Honor has planned?" asked Ginny. She couldn't hide a smirk at the thought of Draco arranging the hen party. She'd offered to help, but he had flatly refused.

Pansy seemed sullen. "The git won't say."

"Well whatever it is, we'd better be cautious," warned Luna.

Ginny and Pansy wore mirrored skeptical expressions, which was pretty much always the case when their head-in-the-clouds friend spoke of mysterious and nefarious activity.

"And why is that?" questioned Ginny.

Luna looked at Ginny and sighed wearily, as if she was exasperated by her naiveté. "Honesty, don't you girls ever read anything? It's a well known fact that men in Las Vegas go on witch hunts."

Pansy couldn't control herself and burst out laughing.

"Laugh now," Luna said, her tone mild as always. "But when you wake in a bathtub full of ice with your pancreas missing, don't complain to me that you can't do magic."

Over the years of knowing the former Miss Lovegood, both women were used to her outrageous declarations. But this was too much. "What in bloody hell does the pancreas have to do with magic?" asked a befuddled Pansy, as if the rest of Luna's tale made perfect sense.

"The pancreas is the center of magical essence," she said patiently. "Haven't you ever wondered why Vampshamswipers never suck blood like real Vampires when they attack witches or wizards, but remove the pancreas instead?"

Both looked gobsmacked. It was so amazingly demented that for a moment Ginny wondered if it was true. "I can't say I have," she finally answered.

"If you'd read my _Quibbler_ interview with Alvin Mythlander, author of "Not Quite Magical Creatures and How they Subsist," you'd know that while technically the Vampshamswiper is considered a magical creature in the same family as the Vampire, it doesn't actually contain any of its own magic. It needs to feed on magical pancreatic juices. Otherwise, it could be out-spelled by a squib."

"Um, right," said Pansy. "Well I'm sure Draco is fully aware of these, 'witch hunts' and will take the necessary precautions."

Ginny was about to comment when she saw something--or rather someone--out of the corner of her eye and shrieked, causing Pansy to nearly fall out of her chair.

"What in Merlin's name?"

She couldn't speak, so she pointed instead.

Over near the entrance to the restaurant stood a slightly sinister looking bald man in a leather jacket. Though indoors, he wore dark shades. "Who in Hades is that?" Pansy asked.

Ginny practically drooled (oddly enough, her brother was literally drooling at that very moment, presented with the astounding vision of more than 1,000 edible items at the Carnival World Buffet). It wasn't something she ever spoke about, but the witch had developed an addiction to muggle action movies. In particular, she'd become enamored with a certain tough talking, fast driving, follicley-challenged action hero. "That's Vin Diesel!" she nearly screamed.

Pansy's face remained blank. Luna's too, but that was nothing out of the ordinary.

Mrs. Potter was unfazed by their lack of enthusiasm. She started to squirm in her seat as the actor followed the hostess and was heading right toward her. Now, being married to the most famous wizard in the world, (and quite well-known in her own right) there wasn't a wizard or witch that could quicken her heart like a school girl. But her favorite muggle celebrity? Well, let's just say the witch had regressed to her 11-year-old self, staring in much the same way she had once gaped at Harry.

As he drew closer, it was hard for the buff star not to notice. And, since Ginny was a very pretty woman, he didn't seem to mind. He was seated at the next table over, facing her. When he sat down he took off his sunglasses in dramatic "handsome actor" fashion, then smiled and gave her a devilish wink.

Her face turned as red as her hair and she grinned back like she was barmy.

"How you doin'?" he asked.

For a moment, Ginny didn't realize he was talking to her, even though he was looking right at her and continued to smile. "Fine," she squeaked out, no louder than a baby chick.

He let out a gruff, testosterone-laced chuckle. He was accustomed to the affect he had on the fairer sex. "Red is my favorite color," he flirted. He glanced at Pansy and Luna, who were looking at him with--disturbingly--no recognition in their eyes. No mind, the ginger-headed babe was obviously enthralled by his animal magnetism. "What brings you lovely ladies to Vegas?"

Pansy, thankful for an opportunity to talk about herself piped in, "I'm getting married."

He gave her an approving glance. "Congratulations. I must say your future husband is a very lucky man."

Now it was her turn to blush. Maybe muggles weren't so bad, she thought, viewing him with new appreciation. Flattery was like the nectar of the gods for Pansy.

Only Luna remained suspicious of the stranger. "Just so you know," she told him evenly. "I don't have a pancreas."

* * *

Just as Luna was fending off the witch hunting Vin Diesel, Draco and Hermione found themselves viewing yet another nightclub. Draco had rejected every other venue they'd visited--which was a fair few--in the last three hours. Gilley's Saloon was "like some kind of muggle hee-haw nightmare," while Tangerine was "too orange, like some kind of Weasley orgy," and Coyote Ugly had "fit barmaids but the music was nauseating." The all-white lounge they were in now seemed the most promising, especially the name: Pure. 

"This will do," Draco said, the relief at having found an appropriate option evident in his voice.

"You're still a bigot, you know that?" chided Hermione. "All of the clubs here are the same, you just prefer this one because the name reminds you of the glorious days before you had to mix with half-bloods and muggle-borns."

"Don't be ridiculous," he protested. "I like it best because it isn't blatantly distasteful like every other place in this shrine to all things tacky."

Okay, he did have a point.

A well-dressed gentleman, noticing the attractive pair, came up to them. "Can I be of assistance? Perhaps show you the Red Room?" Since they didn't respond immediately, he went on to explain, "It's the VIP area for those guests who want privacy with style. I can tell you two don't want to have to deal with the rabble, am I right? It includes a private bar and VIP restrooms."

"That sounds perfect," said Draco.

Hermione wondered for a moment what sort of treatment one could expect in a VIP toilet. The man, obviously a manager or owner, was the picture of pretension. She had to stop herself from asking whether or not they would provide arse-wiping service in the private loo.

"Right this way," he said. They followed him up a staircase and into a secluded area. The room was plush and decorated in red and champagne with extravagant chandeliers, lush draperies and upholstered walls.

Draco raised an eyebrow at Hermione. He turned to the man. "We'll take it for tomorrow night, from 3 a.m on."

"I'm sorry, sir, but it's already been reserved."

"Whatever they're paying I'll give you double," Draco offered.

The manager seemed taken aback, but he had a greedy glint in his eyes. "Very well sir. My name is Dan Tanna, I'm the owner." He put out his hand and Draco shook it. "I'll just go get the paperwork. You can stay up here as long as you wish. Come down to my office when you're ready and we can get everything settled." He smiled at Hermione and then left the room.

"Draco, are you daft? You have no idea how much this is going to cost."

He shrugged. "Like it matters?"

She shook her head. "How is it that after all this time you continue to astound me with your arrogance?"

He looked wounded for a moment, but then it passed and he took her in his arms. "Don't be self-righteous. This is exactly what we need for tomorrow night. This way when we set off the portkeys they won't just vanish out of thin air in the middle of a bunch of muggles. Not to mention," and he paused to lean in and place kisses along her jaw. He moved his lips next to hers and spoke softly. "We're finally alone. I've wanted to drag you into a corner and fuck you senseless all day."

Hermione moaned as he kissed her fervently, parting her lips and making her shiver all over as his skillful tongue danced with hers. She made a weak attempt at pushing him away, "We can't, not here," she breathed. He disregarded her "protests" and pushed her down onto a large cushioned chair.

"Not to worry, love," he said, standing above her. He pulled off his shirt and looked bloody fantastic in the room's subtle light. That's right, fanfiction had been kind to Draco, vanishing his Quidditch-watching beer gut faster than Hermione's knickers in a PWP. He crawled down between her legs, pushing her dress up, "What could be more fitting than offering you my maiden virtue in the Red Room of a bar called Pure?"

She put up a hand as if to stop him. "But this is a public place, that man could come back."

"What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas," he drawled, then proceeded to have his way with the Best Man.

TBC

**A/N:** Thanks to those of you who have reviewed. Thanks, I really appreciate the encouragement.

Just a few notes. The title of this chapter is a reference to the song "Margaritaville." The place where Draco is waiting for Hermione is Jimmy Buffet's Margaritaville a horrid restaurant/bar on the strip in Vegas. Thankfully I didn't have to spend much time there, but just a few minutes with Buffet's songs, (which I don't usually mind) playing endlessly was plenty for me.

For those of you too young to know, "The Rat Pack was a nickname given to a group of 1950s entertainers, which included Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, Sammy Davis, Jr., Joey Bishop, and Peter Lawford." (From Wikipedia) Generally speaking, Bishop was considered the lamest, Sinatra the coolest. They were known to perform in Vegas often and helped make the city popular.

Luna's paranoid concerns are actually inspired by Urban Legends linked to Las Vegas. One refers to "Hunting for Bambi" a fake web site created by a Las Vegas businessman which claimed to offer paint ball hunting of naked women for wealthy men. The other legend is the widespread "waking up in a tub without a kidney" tale. Neither legend is true.

The inclusion of Vin Diesel in this chapter is dedicated to bunney who I joked with about including cheesy celeb cameos and she encouraged me to do so. Thanks, Krissy!

Finally, the club owner Dan Tenna is named after the character played by Robert Urich in the television show "Vega$" which ran from 1978 to 1981.


	9. A Night at the Strip Club

**Rating:** R or M(I'm upping this chapter to R because of language and adult situations)  
**Disclaimer:** Nope, I don't own Harry Potter or any of these characters. This silly plot is mine.  
**Summary:** Anything can happen on stag/hen night in Las Vegas. (Sequel to Friendly Fire.)  
**Warning:** I know I've been teetering on the edge, but I think this story is now fully in the realm of "Bizzaro AU Harry Potter" fanfic.

Ron Weasley was in love. Well, perhaps _love_ was a bit strong. But the lithe "dancer" twirling (and bucking and undulating and um, doing a few other, "acrobatic" moves) in front of him certainly had his attention. Ooooh yeah, his full attention.

He was grinning from ear-to-ear, as if the Chudley Cannons had just won the Quidditch Cup (with him as keeper) and he'd just received a lifetime supply of Cauldron Cakes.

"Do you think his face could get stuck like that?" asked Fred in mock concern.

George studied his younger brother for a moment. "Would be a crying shame. The poor lad isn't exactly charming the knickers off the ladies now. I imagine they'll think he's daft."

"Pity he didn't take after us in the looks department," noted Fred.

"Not to mention personality," offered George.

"Or modesty," Hermione observed.

"It's tragic," the twins said in unison.

Ron gave his brothers a dirty look then brought his rapt attention back to the "entertainment."

They were on the first stop of the promised "Night 'o Debauchery," at a venue called Cheetahs which didn't have much in the way of speedy felines or clothing. In fact, Hermione--surrounded by her wizard friends--was the only fully dressed female on the premises. While she wasn't exactly comfortable leading the entourage on its tour of Vegas flesh, she didn't have much choice. She was the best man, after all. And what other kind of stag party could she possibly orchestrate in Vegas?

Of course she'd tried to wheedle the boys into activities that were more "wholesome," yet fun. Unfortunately, Mitchell Bulstrode wasn't all that keen on a journey through Siegfried and Roy's Secret Garden followed by Carrot Top's one-man show.

"In case you hadn't noticed," he told her. "I'm a bloke now. And that means I want a stag party, not high tea. A filthy, raunchy, arse over tit, can't remember my bloody name night on the Strip with my best mates." He'd looked quite affronted, then added. "And I refuse to see any performer who is named after a vegetable and looks like a Weasley on crack."

Well then, just as long as he was being clear.

* * *

While Hermione was hanging in silicone-implant alley, Draco wasn't faring much better. It was a bit disconcerting to be surrounded by hundreds of women with not one of them even bothering to glance his way. They were too distracted by "Rodney the Rod" who was currently flexing his arse-cheeks to the beat of "Another One Bites the Dust." 

Draco ran his fingers through his silky blond locks. _Why me? Why?_ Like Hermione, he'd tried to steer the witches away from the sort of night that entailed ogling men in thongs. Like Hermione, he'd failed miserably.

"Celine Dion?" Pansy had asked incredulously. "Why don't you suggest that Barry Manilow bloke while you're at it and we can do the 'easy-listening' hen party." (It's important to note that "easy-listening" muggle artists had become _very_ popular among wizards. Or, it could be the author was just looking for an excuse to throw in cheesy Vegas headliner jokes.)

"I thought witches loved that heart-will-not-die dreck," he grumbled.

"No way, Draco. I'm a pureblooded bitch of a witch and I want big strapping muggle studs, lewd behavior and plenty of booze," she demanded.

Draco had put his hands up in defeat. He'd thought offering the Canadian songstress as an option was sacrifice enough. It's not like he wanted to pay to hear her shriek. But anything would have been better than to suffer this humiliation.

He glanced up as the women around him broke out in rousing applause, managing to catch the eye of "Rod" who winked lasciviously at him. _Gulp_. "Pans, I think we should head to the next club," he squeaked.

But she didn't' hear him. Too busy stuffing dollars in Rod's…well, let's just say Draco was going to have nightmares for a long time. "I need another drink."

* * *

The "talent" at Cheetahs who had so enthralled Ron was currently taking a break. Having noticed the perma-grin on the redhead's face during her "performance" she was trying to coax him and the others into the back room for VIP lap dances. 

Crabbe and Goyle were particularly intrigued by this idea. "So you're saying you'll be totally starkers and you'll writhe on our laps for 20 minutes, but we can't touch you?" asked Goyle, his voice filled with awe.

The thing is, wizards did have strip clubs, but they were rather tame. In general, Wizard society was far more conservative than the Muggle world. For most of them, it was their first visit to any kind of nudie club. And a muggle one in the land of sin was radically different than anything the pureblooded contingency had ever experienced.

"So how much does it cost?" asked Ron, who looked like he'd pay anything and give away his first born in the process.

"A hundred each," she said, pouting her lips seductively. Then she said in a lower voice, "I'll throw in blow jobs for an extra fifty each. But no cumming on my face." She noticed Hermione up at the bar and added, "If your friend joins us, I'll knock off a couple hundred from the total."

Ron was drooling so much he needed a bib, while Crabbe had a pained expression on his face as if he was trying to calculate the total between the four of them (a blushing Neville Longbottom had also been dragged into the "negotiations"). Goyle just stared dully at the woman—and not at her eyes.

"Neville, I think you should ask Hermione," suggested Ron.

"Are you mental? You want her to go back there with us?"

"It's a good deal," he said, as if Hermione accompanying them to the back room of a strip joint and watching them get lap dances and blow jobs was the most normal thing on the planet.

The stripper—her name was Amber Star—appraised them each then said, "I'll go ask her. Be right back, boys."

At that moment Hermione was returning from the bar to the table she was sharing with the twins, Harry and Mitchell, unaware that she had become a bargaining chip. Amber sauntered up to her, smiling broadly, "I like nice tits, I always have, how about you?" she asked cheerfully. 1

"Um…what?" Hermione stammered.

Amber looked her up and down. "You know, you have fantastic tits. Where did you get them?"

At this point all of the wizards were listening intently. It had dawned on the more observant members of the group that the two women looked remarkably alike. Amber was Hermione's tarty doppelganger.

Hermione's complexion had turned a lovely shade of pink. She leaned in and said quietly to the other woman, "If you must know, I'm fanon Hermione. I have the best tits ever." Then she said more loudly in her trademark bossy tone, "I'm really not going to discuss my, my womanly attributes with you!"

Amber nodded. "No problem, sugar. Wanna join us in the back for a lap dance?"

"Go for it, Hermione," piped in Mitchell, who looked highly amused. "You promised to go all out for my stag party. Now get in there and get dirty!"

She shot him a glare. Before she could say anything Amber squealed with delight, "You're getting married? You should have said something. We're having a bachelor party special this week! I'll just need $500 total, though that doesn't include sucking anybody off. Though I'm willing to throw in a muff dive for your gal here."

Mitchell, who had chosen that moment to take a sip from his drink, spit it out all over Fred who had the misfortune of being in the line of fire.

"Bugger me!" he shouted.

Mitchell ignored the swearing Weasley and spoke to Amber. "That won't be necessary," he said quickly. Ron looked forlorn and he continued, "what you do on your own is your business, mate, but Pansy and I had a deal: look don't touch."

"Works for me," said Harry. "Ginny would hex me within an inch of my life if she found out I'd done more than watch."

"Do we have a deal then?" Amber asked.

Mitchell stood up, "I believe we do."

Rather than being shocked at Amber's sexual offer, Hermione found herself intrigued. She'd been studying the stripper more closely. Beneath the layers of make-up and the slag attitude lurked a shrewd businesswoman. The witch guessed that there was no such thing as "specials" for stag parties since probably 80 percent of the club's business was about-to-be-wed benders. It was just a clever tactic to get large parties to shell out more cash.

As the others started to file away, Amber sidled up to her. "You going to join us, honey?"

She smiled genuinely, "No thanks, but I appreciate the, um, offer. I need to get some air."

"That's too bad," she said sincerely. Then she turned to Fred, who was still wiping rum and coke off his shirt and hadn't moved to head to the private room with the others. "What about you, sexy? Coming to the party with me or you're gonna stay out here with your girlfriend?

While offers of oral sex hadn't managed to faze Hermione—well, not much, since she was in Vegas—that last comment had her reeling, "Oh no he's not my... My boyfriend's not here, he's out with the witches, eh, I mean bitches!" _Right, that sounded reasonable_, she thought.

"Well, he's not denying it," the stripper said slyly. She grabbed Hermione gently by the arm and leaned in. "I see plenty when I'm onstage, darling, and he may not be your man, but he wants to be. He barely looked at me," she sounded on the edge of being insulted as she explained, "he only had eyes for you."

"I, well I. No, that's not possible," she said. But then Hermione thought back on the last few months and how Fred had acted toward her. She'd protested vehemently to Draco whenever he dared to suggest that her old flame was feeling a new fire for her. But hearing an outsider suggest it suddenly opened her eyes to the truth. "Bleeding hell," she muttered.

"Oh it's not that bad," said Amber. "He's a fucking hottie. I'd do the both of you for free."

Hermione must have been getting used to the woman's bluntness. "You should see the maid of honor." Amber looked confused for a second, so she clarified, "It's a rather non-traditional wedding party. I'm the best man and my boyfriend is the maid of honor."

Amber laughed, "Shit, if he's as cute as this one bring him along. We'll party."

Fred tried not to look obvious as he attempted to listen in. Based on Hermione's blush, he figured she was talking about him. He wasn't complaining. The "boyfriend" remark had given him a sense of hope.

When the two women broke apart he addressed Amber politely. "I'm sure you'll put on a smashing show, Miss Star, but I'm going to stay out here and make sure my, friend," he said firmly, "doesn't get accosted by some unsavory character."

"Maybe she wants to get accosted," she said with a tone of naked wisdom (pun intended). "Not that the whole "English Gentleman" thing doesn't make me want to ride you like a cowgirl, but sometimes a gal likes a man to throw her down on the floor and fuck her raw."

Both Hermione and Fred were rendered speechless. The woman was like a foul-mouthed philosopher. Just then Ron and George came back over (the others were hovering near the entrance to the VIP area) to see what was taking so long. "Are we all set?" asked Ron, obviously jumping out of his skin in anticipation of seeing more of Amber's skin.

"Yes, Fred, everything sorted?" George asked. He didn't try to hide the accusation in his voice.

"I'm going stay out here and make sure Hermione's alright. You blokes have a grand time," said Fred, failing to meet his twin's eyes.

Ron was oblivious to the personal drama surrounding him. "Are we all set?" he asked Amber eagerly.

"We sure are, red," she said, while admiring all three brothers. She linked arms with George and Ron and then blew Hermione and Fred air kisses. "We'll be a while, you kids have fun!" Then she slinked away with the two wizards—one grinning broadly, the other frowning with worry.

Hermione was gnawing at her lip anxiously, unable to look at Fred. "Well, I guess I'll step outside for a bit." Then she looked up at him, "You don't have to join me."

"I insist." He offered his arm and she took it somewhat reluctantly, and then they headed toward the exit.

* * *

Draco had finally figured out how to survive a hen party: get completely trashed. Somewhere in the back of his mind there was the gnawing memory that he and Hermione had agreed to stay sober in order to ensure their plan went off without a hitch…but at this point that thought was obliterated. 

Which might explain why in the same moment that Ron was being made the happiest wizard ever, (though let me assure the reader, there was no exchange of bodily fluids—at least not while he was surrounded by all of his pals) and Fred stood next to Hermione in the warm Vegas night, working up the courage to tell her how he felt, Draco was jumping around in a completely undignified, un-Malfoy-like manner.

It's very likely Lucius Malfoy was spinning wildly in his grave, though not as wildly as his only son and heir. His blond hair drenched with sweat, Draco was dancing up a storm surrounded by witches, muggle women and half-naked men, singing "Its Raining Men" at the top of his lungs.

"Hallelujah!" he screamed on cue and threw his hands in the air (like he just didn't care). Misty, a pretty muggle who happened to be the maid of honor in her respective bachelorette party, had made her fist into a "microphone" and she and Draco were sharing it and bonding as they drunkenly swayed together. The fun had started earlier, when she'd let him in on her "Bridal Tasks," a list of embarrassing and bawdy "goals" the bride had to complete over the course of the night. Already, the unlikely duo had coerced their respective brides into licking a bald man's head and doing a body shot with one of the male exotic dancers.

He would have continued to boogie oogie oogie the night away if it wasn't for the sudden need to use the loo--badly. Too drunk to bother excusing himself, he stumbled off the dance floor. Unfortunately, his blurry brain couldn't recall where the john was located and instead of going in the right direction, he accidentally walked out of the club and into the casino.

_Alright_, he thought frantically, _must be one around here somewhere_. Indeed there was, but rather than heading toward it, he began to rush the opposite way.

A few minutes later he was so desperate he was ready to piss on the plush gaudy carpet. And then he spotted it, like a beacon of beautiful light, the door to his salvation.

"Yes!" He ran toward it with abandon, smashing through to the other side. He pulled up to the urinal just in time, sighing blissfully as he emptied his full bladder. "Ahhhh."

He was in such a peaceful state--content as a babe in his mother's arms--that he didn't notice there was another man in the bathroom who was watching him. No, not watching, staring. You see, Draco was so plastered beyond reason that he started to perform wandless magic without thinking. He was humming absentmindedly (a tune which sounded a bit like "Its Raining Men") as he slid gracelessly to the sink, which he turned on from several meters away. At the same time he started to fix his hair, his small comb magically performing the task for him as he washed his hands and summoned a piece of paper towel.

By the time he realized he wasn't alone, the other man was down on his knees, looking up at Draco like he was some kind of god.

"It's _you_," the man exclaimed, his eyes glassy in the presence of divinity. "I knew you'd come!"

Now, under normal circumstances Draco would have thought the man daft, but in his inebriated state the muggle man groveling at his feet brought back a rush of his old pureblood arrogance. "That's right, muggle," he slurred. "It's good some of you know your place."

The man looked confused, but then he jumped to his feet so fast, grinning madly, that the wizard took a step backward. "Yes! You probably know that I'm clear, sir! I've achieved operating thetan level seven!" While still heavily under the influence of the alcohol, Draco was beginning to get creeped out by the muggle. And that toothy crazed smile, where had he seen it before? 2

"Well, that's very interesting muggle, but I've got to get back to the Chippendales club," he said nervously.

The man grasped his arm. Even though he'd used magic a second before, for some reason the man's demented glare froze him in his tracks. "Sir," the man said excitedly, "The others will want to meet you!"

"Yeah, that's fanbloodytastic but I really should be..."

"No!" he protested. "If you come sir, I assure you that you'll be fully honored and presented with gifts and offerings."

_Hmm_, Draco thought. _This guy was obviously barmy, but it could be interesting. And what Malfoy would turn down an opportunity to be lavished with "gifts and offerings?"_

"Alright, if you put it that way," he said, then wondered if this was how Voldemort had gotten his start--some half-backed nutter in a loo thinking he was a god. "Lead the way, peon."

* * *

Hermione felt Fred's eyes on her as she gazed at the bright lights of the Vegas night. _Say something already_, she chided herself. 

"Look Fred..."

"Look Hermione..."

They had spoken simultaneously. He laughed, "Oi, that can't be good. Think maybe we're actually triplets separated at birth?"

She snorted, "Not bloody likely!"

"Hey, don't insult me and my brother!" But there was mirth in his voice and Hermione was glad to hear it. "Being one of the Weasley _Triplets_ would be a great honor."

Hermione beamed at him, "Yes, of course. And very dignified!" Her eyes were lit from within and in that moment Fred thought Vegas had nothing on her.

"You're so beautiful, Hermione."

Her skin became flushed with color, "Fred..."

"Please, just let me get this out and done with," he said, then took a couple of deep breaths. "Right. So I was saying..."

"You think I'm beautiful?"

"Gods, you're the most beautiful witch I know. You're brilliant, you've got a wicked sense of humor. And I can't believe what an unbelievable arse I was to not only let you go all those years ago, but to never fully acknowledge our relationship to Ron, to my family, to your family."

"Fred, you don't have to say all that, we were both so much younger," she said.

"Maybe," he said. "But I still should have known better. George knew and he told me I was a bloody wanker back then."

Hermione was looking around at anything but Fred. She cared so much for him. Could she love him? There was no doubt he was a great guy. Decent, funny, intelligent. But wasn't Draco all those things? And they were together now. _Fred was the past and Draco was her future, she told herself. Right?_

"Listen, Hermione," he said, taking hold of her hand. When she didn't pull it away he felt encouraged to go on. "I know my timing is shite. I'm not asking you to end things with Malfoy. I'm just...well, telling you that if things don't work out..." Then he seemed to reconsider his words and amended, "Not that I don't want things to work out for you two." He squeezed her hand and then dropped it stepping away. "Oh, who am I fooling?"

Her heart lept out to him. She could love him, she was sure of it. But it felt like it was too late. She felt the impulse to reach for him and she cursed her confused emotions. She was certain that Draco was the man she loved. So she didn't understand why her long ago lover could still make her ache. _Maybe_, she thought wistfully, _once we cross that line with someone we can never really go back_.

Fred turned around to face her again. "Look, I'm just going to lay it all out on the table. I'm in love with you."

She clutched at her chest, "Oh Fred."

"Yeah, I know." Then he took a few steps toward her and placed his hand under her chin. "I do want you to be happy, Hermione. And if that means Malfoy, then I'll deal with it. But I had to let you know how I felt. I didn't want to regret keeping it in a second time."

"Fred you didn't hold it in back then, you told me," she said.

"I may have spoken the words, but I never showed you. I pushed you away like you'd always be there for me when I was ready to grow up," he admitted.

A few stray tears fell from Hermione's brown eyes and Fred wiped them away. Then he leaned in and very gently touched his lips to hers, like the ghost of a feather, then pulled away.

"We should go back inside, see if the others are ready to move on to the next 'Vegas hot spot,'" his voice was playful again, but he couldn't mask the fear he felt for laying his heart on the line, despite his chances. The thought cracked him up.

"What's so funny?" Hermione asked, confused by his sudden shift from somber to hysterical.

"Nothing really. I was just thinking how I'd taken a chance tonight, despite the odds. Then I remembered where we are," he smiled broadly again and it warmed her. "That's what you do in Vegas, baby! Gamble." 3

* * *

It would be safe to say that gambling was just what Draco was doing when he agreed to follow a crazy muggle he met in the washroom of a Las Vegas casino. And now that he was at the batty bugger's "meeting," he was sobering up and starting to regret his decision. 

There were about thirty muggles in the conference room he'd been led to. They were all looking at him with that same whacked out worshipfulness of the loo loon, who was speaking to the group. "And then he moved the elements, man!" The guy hopped up on a chair and pumped his fist, as if climbing furniture and making wild hand gestures would fully demonstrate the significance of Draco's ability to make bathroom tissues float.

"Listen, I don't know what you muggles are on about, but I really can't be arsed, I've got to get back to my mates..."

"What's a muggle, Tom? Why does he keep calling us that?" asked one of the men gathered in the room. Draco gaped at the tall guy with dark hair and piercing blue eyes. Just like that Tom character he looked so familiar. It was just out of his grasp.

"I don't know, John," he said. Then his eyes burrowed into Draco, "But I'll tell you this, he's the man. I can feel it in his energy, his vibe is electric. Woo!" And just to emphasize the point, he threw his fist in the air again, like his team had just scored the winning goal.

The gesture brought back a memory to Draco and in that moment the alcoholic haze lifted and he knew exactly who the two muggles were. "For fucks sake, you're those actors." And then he looked around at the room. On the wall behind him there was a huge poster of another muggle. He suddenly remembered a program he'd watched on muggle television with Hermione and it all clicked into place. "Well, then," he started. "It was really a thrill to meet you all, but like I said, gotta run!"

They looked at him blankly, then Tom dropped to his knees again and pleaded, "Don't go, we've been waiting for the sign, we fear Xenu will rise again!" 4

"Right," Draco, said. He walked carefully around the extremely famous muggle (and the author isn't going to tell you who, but if you can't tell you've obviously never watched "Oprah" or read _Us Weekly_. "It's been a pleasure."

Draco started toward the door, but several of the larger muggles moved in front of it to block his exit. He clutched his wand in his pocket. _May as well use it_, he thought. _These tossers already think I'm some kind of god-like being. And well, they are right about that_. He had a self-satisfied smirk on his face as he took out his wand.

But before he could use it there were several loud cracks of Apparation in the room. Draco was almost as stunned as the muggles (he blamed it on the liquor) as five black-clad wizards appeared out of thin air.

One of them, a tall blond-haired man who had the presence of a commander, surveyed the situation with a scowl on his face. He was looking at the cowering muggles with supreme annoyance in his eyes."Why does this happen every fucking time you people hold a meeting here?" And then the obliviate charms flew.

Another wizard, a solid looking bald man with dark shades on (even though he was indoors and it was nighttime), approached Draco. "You alright man?"

Draco shook his head to clear the lingering fog. It took several moments for his brain to register that like those famous muggles Tom and John, the wizard talking to him also looked extremely familiar. "Do I know you?"

"You may recognize me from some muggle movies I've been in. I like to play on both sides of the muggle/wizard fence, keeps things interesting," he put his hand out to Draco, who took it. "Muggles know me as...

"Vin Diesel," Draco said as they shook hands, "I'm Draco Malfoy." The Weaslette had mentioned meeting the actor (she was very exuberant when she described the run in, much to Potter's chagrin).

Vin seemed surprised and had obviously recognized the Malfoy name, "Wow, most wizards don't recognize me, especially the purebloods," he said, a note of pride in his voice over the fact that Draco had. "My given name is Vincent Dinglebat."

Draco's blood-shot eyes widened, "Of the Chicago Dinglebats?"

"I grew up in Wizard New York, but yeah, my Great Grandfather was Dicky the Dick Dinglebat. I'm muggle on my mom's side."

The wizard leader walked up to them, still obviously perturbed by the situation. "Everything in order now here?" he asked Vin.

"Yes, sir," he answered. "I can escort Mr. Malfoy here back to the Wizard sector."

"No, that won't be necessary," Draco jumped in. He thought about trying to explain that he was out with a group of witches for hen night, but then realized he didn't want to deal with further embarrassment. "My friends will be looking for me, I need to get back to them."

"Well, I should take you to them," offered Vin. "You've had a real shock tonight, man."

"No, I'm fine, really," he protested. But the two wizard's exchanged a quick glance and Draco knew they didn't buy it.

The blond guy ignored Draco and spoke to Vin, "Make sure he gets back to his buddies alright." Then he turned to Draco, "And when you do get back to your friends do me a favor and stay put. You can't wave your fucking wand around in a muggle city. And tell your friends the same." With a pop, the irate wizard was gone.

Vin shrugged his shoulders, "Sorry about that, man. It's the season so we have to go out on calls like this almost nightly. Ever since Vegas became popular with wizards its been a real zoo. Course, since the muggles are usually just as ripped we don't always need to perform obliviates, they just chalk it up to being drunk most of the time."

"Why in Merlin's name are you doing this anway?" Draco asked.

"I like to give back a bit to the Wizard community. I consider it my charity work," he explained. "Plus, I've got some wild stories."

Draco groaned inwardly at the fact that he'd just added to the collection. "This has got to be the oddest bleeding night of my life," he said.

Vin smirked at him. "It's not over yet."

TBC...

**End notes:**

The title of this two-part chapter is inspired by the Marx Brother's film, "A Night at the Opera." -- I would never compare my comic abilities to the famous comedians, but their zany brand of chaotic humor is definitely an influence on this chapter.

1 The character of of "Amber Star" and her colorful dialog are inspired by the excessively bad movie "Showgirls."

2 Scientology terms: Clear and Operating Thetan Levels refers to the stages of advancement in Scientology. From Wikipedia: "The "Hidden Truth" about the nature of the universe is taught to only the most advanced Scientologists, those who have achieved the level "clear", in a series of courses known as the Advanced Levels. The contents of these courses are held in strict confidence within Scientology. They have never been published by the Church, except for use in highly secure areas. The most advanced of all are the eight Operating Thetan levels, which require the initiate to be thoroughly prepared. The highest level, OT VIII, is only disclosed at sea, on the Scientology cruise ship Freewinds."

3 A very similar line is spoken in the aforementioned "Showgirls"

4 Xenu, also from Wikipedia: "Among these advanced teachings (of Scientology), one episode that is revealed to those who reach OT level III has been widely remarked upon in the press: the story of Xenu, the galactic tyrant who first kidnapped certain individuals who were deemed "excess population" and loaded these individuals into space planes for transport to the site of extermination, the planet of Teegeeack (Earth)."

A few other thoughts. Yeah, I admit that this story has gone completely off the map, but I just felt like if they're in Vegas, may as well make it as insane as possible.

An added disclaimer: Given my references to several celebs (either explicitly by including Vin Diesel or implied heavily, in the case of "Tom" and "John") and my parody of Scientology, I just want to state for the record that I don't know any of these people and I'm not a Scientologist. None of the actions portrayed in here are real (I should hope not!)...This is all in the name of wacky fun.

**One more A/N: Let me just state for the record, for those of you concerned, despite some dramatic tension with Fred, this IS Draco/Hermione and they will end up together in the end. She had feelings for him in the past and cares for him as a friend, so it is natural that she would feel upset or conflicted over his stated feelings. BUT THEY AREN'T GETTING TOGETHER AND ALL WILL END JUST PEACHY-KEEN. I have no desire to mislead any readers, just putting a little bit of conflict into what is otherwise total crackfic. W****hatever angst is minimal and all will be sunshine, lolly-pops and Elvis in the end. If you've gotten this far, I hope you'll have some faith. If you can't do that then thanks for reading anyway and I'm sure you'll find plenty of other fics that will please you. No harm done. :)**

Thanks for reading!


	10. A Night at the Strip Club Part II

**Disclaimer:** Nope, I don't own Harry Potter or any of these characters. And I don't know or own Vin Diesel! This silly plot is mine.  
**Summary:** Part two of stag/hen night in Las Vegas. Will Hermione and Draco find each other? (Sequel to Friendly Fire.)

Ginny Weasley was seeing things. There could be no other logical explanation. Sure she'd been pounding back the Fuzzy Navels and Kamikaze shots all night, but the vision before her eyes was too disconcerting to be the result of alcohol consumption.

Draco Malfoy—who had disappeared from the club for a good hour—had just waltzed back in and he wasn't alone. He was with Vin Fucking Diesel. Not only that, they appeared to be chatting and laughing like old uni buddies and wearing matching dark shades like "Blues Brothers" wannabes. _(Well, at least in Malfoy's case_, Ginny thought, _cause the Diesel man looked hot and self-assured. What in Merlin's name was he doing with Malfoy?)_

She was gawking at Vin, but it took a moment for the B-movie action star to notice her. When he did he exclaimed, "Holy fuck! My foxy lady friend!" (It sounded way cooler than it reads, trust me.)

Draco found this highly amusing. "Chill out, dude, that's Ginny Weasley _Potter_," he said.

_Dude? Did he just say dude?_ Ginny's head was spinning so much she hadn't even wondered about the "chill out" part.

Vin's reaction was a flash of disappointment then he regained his composure, sort of. "No shit! No fucking shit!" He looked at her now with renewed appreciation. "I should have known a bunch of fine looking mamacitas like yourselves were witches."

Pansy was all flirty smiles, though Luna still seemed a bit suspicious and appeared to be clutching her back in the vicinity of her pancreas. Ginny was blushing from the attention. "How... how do you know about Harry and," she lowered her voice to a loud whisper, "Witches."

And much to their amazement—in addition to Ginny, Pansy and Luna those gathered included Daphne Greengrass, Katie Weasley, Lavender Thomas and Tonks—Draco (with an assist from Vin) spun the fantastic tale of his brush with certifiable A-list celebrities. (Even Vin was willing to concede that he wasn't on that level, noting that the more famous the muggle star, the more FUBAR.) 1

It was quite a story and needed no embellishment—though Draco was happy to provide some. Like the part where he claimed the mad muggles had offered him a virgin sacrifice. But much to the former god's disappointment what really captured their interest was Vin's true Wizard origins.

Luna had relaxed considerably and she and the others were lavishing him with attention. Not that Draco minded all _that_ much. If he had ever been privy to the American sitcom "Seinfeld," he would have realized the stirrings he felt toward the half-blood were the makings of a "man-crush." (The author pauses to consider how many reviews crying "Noooooooooooooooooooooo not slash!" she'll receive if she fails to clarify the crush was completely non-sexual and did not cause even the teeniest, tiniest, itty-bittiest ache in Draco's totally heterosexual manly-man loins. She will not be held responsible if Draco/Vin becomes all the rage. Ahem.)

By the time the hen party moved on to a new location the actor happily joined them. He managed to convince the leader of his elite Wizard commando squad that he'd "monitor" Draco and his crew the rest of the night to ensure they didn't get into trouble. Of course, Vin's interpretation of this task was to buy round after round of drinks.

That's why within a few hours Draco was as intoxicated as he'd been before the "bathroom abduction" and his interaction with Vin had devolved from "Dude, Where's My Car?" (not exactly "Masterpiece Theater" to begin with) to beer commercials.

"Wassssssssssssup," Draco prodded.

"Wassssssssssssssssssssssssssup," Vin replied.

"I love you man!"

"I love _you_ man!"

It was all in the name of good fun and nobody was hitchin' a ride up Brokeback Mountain. In fact, everyone was having a grand 'ol time. Except for one little problem. They were already an hour late in meeting up with Hermione and the stag party refugees.

* * *

Hermione was pissed and not in the fun, hugging everyone around her and dancing on a table way. 

Sure the night had gone reasonably well. Nobody had gotten lost or killed among her wizard charges. (Even if she couldn't throw the hen party, she remained the "mother of all hens.") Mitchell and the rest were more than content having had their fill of Vegas tits and arse. They'd made it to the rendezvous point in the Red Room at Pure right on time.

Hermione had felt a bit tingly as she recalled her earlier visit with Draco when they'd um...tested...the venue. But an hour and a half later and her blood wasn't heated from wicked thoughts, but boiling with indignation and no small amount of anxiety.

After two hours she made the decision to go find them. Fred had wanted to join her, but she was adamant about going alone, insisting he stay and keep an eye on the others.

As she moved through one casino after another in her quest, she considered the evenings' events. Things had been surprisingly relaxed between her and Fred since his confession. It felt like a weight had been lifted. Not that he'd see it that way. Plus, she knew this new development might upset Draco. Well, that was putting it mildly, but she couldn't keep it from him. The only way he would trust her and she could prove her love was to be honest.

You see, Fred's feelings while initially causing more confusion for the witch had lead to an epiphany of sorts. Suddenly faced with a choice, it was now clear as day to her that Draco was the wizard she wanted. Yes, Fred was important to her, but whatever pangs of more than friendship that lingered were nostalgic—like hearing an old tune from her past while knowing her taste in music had changed.

More accurately, Fred was like a brother. She chastised herself for not really expressing this to him earlier, but she'd been bowled over with shock and concern when they'd spoken. Still, Hermione wasn't the cleverest witch of her age merely so fanfic authors could gratuitously use the phrase to assert just how _fucking smartastic_ she was. The woman did have some mega-brains under that bushy hair. And she was also an astute observer of human—whether it be Wizard or Muggle—nature.

Given Fred's insistence that he wanted her to be happy no matter what, she suspected that deep inside his "love" for her wasn't all that different from her more sisterly feelings for him. Well, at least this is what she told herself knowing that she'd have to push him away. One thing she was sure of was that he didn't burn for her with the same intensity as Daco. She felt confident that the situation would work itself out.

That was of course, if she didn't murder Draco when she finally found him.

These were the thoughts that buzzed through her mind as she entered yet another casino. The ping and clang and applause and smoke were beginning to play havoc with her senses.

As she passed a group of Blackjack tables the noise grew louder, jerking her out of her contemplation. There seemed to be some sort of disturbance.

A rather belligerent drunk man was screaming at a dealer, his friends holding him back. "Listen, fuckface, there's no fucking way the house can win every fucking hand unless you're cheating or you're some kind of a fucking wizard!"

Hermione had just walked past and made to move quickly away from the scuffle when the dealer's words—and his voice—stopped her dead in her tracks.

"That I am," came the reply. "And you my _friend_ are a bloody genius for figuring it out. I suggest you contact Mensa immediately as I'm sure they'll want to know about such _impressive_ intellect... Unless of course you're one of those _idiot_ savants."

The loose cannon was practically climbing over the table, despite his friend's best efforts to contain him. Hermione turned around slowly, gripped with curiosity.

_No way_, she thought.

Her eyes were reluctant to confirm what inside she already knew. After a long moment she looked at the card dealer. He was tall and lean, his dark hair long and pulled back in a band. He didn't see her as his own eyes were coldly dismissing the boozed-up buffoon, who still foamed at the mouth in anger.

"Now, are you going to do this esteemed establishment a favor and leave, or shall I have these gentlemen show you out," he gestured toward two excessively large security guards. "Or perhaps you would rather find out just how powerful a _wizard_I am when dealing with insolent, pathetic little cretins like yourself?" he asked venomously.

Hermione stared open-mouthed. _It couldn't be. It couldn't be. It couldn't be. It was..._

"Professor Snape!" she yelped, drawing his attention and a look of abject...annoyance.

"Bugger all," he muttered. "I knew I should have stayed at the monastery."

* * *

Roughly an hour later at an establishment just steps away from Hermione's encounter with Snape, a booming voice announced, "And now ladies, and quite a few gentlemen, the Playgirl Lounge is proud to present for your viewing pleasure, the one, the only, Wanton Wizard!" 

Draco whooped (sarcastically) at yet another costumed git in yet another "male review." Pansy and the rest of the witches were relentless. It was getting kind of tiresome and even though he was still pretty high, he was starting to come down. However, the current performer's stage name and get-up were enough to keep him amused for a bit longer.

The dancer wore an obscenely tight-fighting red leather outfit, complete with a cape and mask. He was actually doing magic as he disrobed and even in his woozy state, Draco could tell he wasn't faking. There was something unsettling about the man, who was clearly a real wizard.

The more red leather he vanished away, performing spells that any of the Muggles watching would assume were slight-of-hand, the more Draco's discomfort grew. As the buff, ebony-skinned man peeled down to nothing but a g-string, Draco noticed the former Slytherin witches were riveted. Something was dodgy. The guy was well built, sure, but all of the men who they'd seen tonight were like Adonis.

What Draco saw in Pansy and Daphne's eyes wasn't just lust—it was recognition.

Even before the wizard on stage cast his final spell and removed his mask Draco knew who he was. In fact, when it happened he shouted—along with Pansy and Daphne: "Blaise!"

The others looked at them curiously then gasped in surprise. Sure enough, that bit of exotic hotness—canon style—was Blaise Zabini standing in all his blooming glory. The moment he'd heard his name called (amidst the thunderous applause) he gave his old classmates a saucy smile.

Then he spotted his blond-haired school chum and the grin broadened. He pointed his wand (his magical wand, get your pervy minds out of the gutter) in Draco's direction. "Accio Malfoy," he said under his breath.

Draco was too stunned to react before he was sucked onstage and Blaise had uttered another spell, transforming his regular outfit into a black leather getup. The witches and Vin cheered wildly along with their Muggle counterparts.

The costume Draco wore now had black leather trousers so snug they melted to his skin and buttoned up the sides, highlighting his gorgeous bum. On top he wore a vest that stretched temptingly across his cut chest and washboard stomach. There was a leather band wrapped around the bicep of his muscular left arm. To complete the look, his grey eyes peered out from a leather mask. (The author allows herself and her readers a moment to drool in contemplation of leathery Draco hotness. Ahhh.)

Just as he was about to scream bloody hell at Blaise for pulling him up there, the yells of "Take it off, blondie!" and "Shake it, sexy!" reached his ears. The women were going absolutely insane for him. _Well, naturally,_ he reminded himself. _I am after all, me._ 2

Blaise had moved off to the side and the deejay had started to spin a new song. Draco didn't know what it was, but between the babes fainting in the aisles (well not quite) and the steady beat, his arse started moving of its own accord.

The catcalls reached new heights and Draco threw his arms up and declared without a trace of irony, "I'm a golden god!" 3

* * *

Hermione was sitting in a bar—as luck would have it just next-door to the Playgirl lounge—having one of the most fascinating conversations of her life—with Severus Snape. While her immediate instinct upon running into her former Hogwarts professor had been to go—quickly—in the opposite direction, she couldn't resist the urge to find out just how in the name of Morgan Le Fay he'd ended up here. 

Following the incident with the wasted muggle thug, Snape had left his shift early and agreed to join Hermione in her search for Draco and the others.

But first he offered to buy her a drink, noting her harried appearance and the fact that they both could use a stiff one. "If you find Draco with that bug still firmly up your arse no good will come of it," he stated wisely. "One drink to calm down and then we'll locate the wayward Mr. Malfoy."

Almost an hour later (as Blaise Zabini prepared to go on for his nightly show) Snape was telling Hermione about his experiences living among Tibetan Monks for over five years.

"I assure you, Miss Granger, that nothing could have brought my life into focus more than that simple, quiet existence," he said, nary a sliver of sarcasm in his voice. "Had I discovered that serenity as a young wizard my life would have turned out quite differently."

"But how could you trade that for _this_?" she asked, gesturing at the chaos around them.

"My guru," he started, and then gave her a sharp look as she snorted with laughter at the thought of Snape seeking advice from a lama. "My guru," he began again, "felt I needed to face a trial out in the world again before I could move on to the next level in my studies. And what better place to be tested?"

"Still, it seems extreme," she said.

"I would have thought so once, but you can't imagine the peace it gives me to resist the urge to lash out at this madness," he said. "It's a lesson I wish I could pass to Draco, but I know he's not ready. Still I'll admit his alliance with you is… enlightening. He's obviously trying to deal with his demons at a much younger age than I did."

"How so?" she asked.

Snape smirked at her, "Don't be coy, Miss Granger. As much as your tendency to stick your nose firmly up every instructor's arse grated on my nerves to no end, even I will concede you were always more than a pedantic parrot. You know exactly how you fit into Draco's need for redemption."

"But there's more to it than that," she said defensively.

"I don't disagree, which is why I wonder at you wasting even a moment over a Weasley," he snapped.

Hermione choked on her drink, "Draco told you about that in his letters?"

"That surprises you?"

"Not that he would share things with you, but that he felt threatened enough by Fred to even mention him," she said.

"Put yourself in his place," he said impatiently, but not unkindly. "The entire wizarding world expected you to marry one of those insufferable plebeians." She started to protest and he added, "Spare me. I'm not saying they're simple-minded, just bloody intolerable."

"Well it doesn't matter, I'm with Draco," she said, startled she was discussing something so personal with Snape.

"Have you told Mr. Weasley that? Because from Draco's perspective the man is waiting in the wings for him to fall on his face," he said.

Hermione was stricken. All her musings tonight had been about Fred's feelings--first her reaction to them and then how to let him down gently. Except to worry about how he would react, Hermione never once considered how the situation had been hurting Draco. And not just tonight, but for months. "I've been such an idiot."

"Well, don't expect me of all people to disagree, but I don't think the damage is irrevocable," he offered. She looked like she was going to start crying and he let out an exasperated breath. "Really, Miss Granger, don't you think it's about time you stopped acting like a bloody Gryffindor and became an adult? It's clear your involvement with Draco has improved you to some extent—the brilliant plot he told me you conceived is proof enough, but you cling to your childish beliefs. Including the one that says a wizard like Draco will let you down, otherwise you would have told Weasley to stop sniffing around long before the situation was out of hand."

"The situation's not…"

"Please. You forget whom you're talking to. You're as obvious as an Elvis float in the Las Vegas Day parade," he snapped.

At mention of Elvis Hermione suddenly remembered that they still had to find Draco and complete the task that would finally seal their revenge. And then, looking at Snape, she had another thought. But she had to tread carefully.

"Professor," she said gingerly, unable to call him Severus and Mr. Snape sounded too weird. "I know you're right and as soon as I have the opportunity I'll make everything crystal clear to both Fred and Draco. I know it may seem unreasonable to you, but I really didn't see until earlier tonight what Draco was telling you about in his letters. I will get the matter sorted. But right now we have to go find him… and," here eyes developed an unmistakable gleam. "I need to ask a favor."

* * *

The stars were aligned and the golden god was ascending in front of his apostles. Or, more accurately, Draco had stripped down to nothing but a silky green g-string and was causing quite a few pairs of knickers to moisten in the packed nightclub. 

He was a sight to be seen, but little did he know that just as he'd declared his goldenness to the crowd and started to dance and disrobe, his former Head of House and his girlfriend had entered the lounge. After their tête-à-tête Snape and Hermione had left the bar and heard the rambunctious din that spilled out from the strip club. Naturally, they went to investigate.

Hermione had spotted Draco right away. How could she not? His bright blond hair like a beacon as his sexy body writhed and shimmied to the beat of the muggle group Abba's disco classic "Voulez-Vous."

Snape sighed, "Surely if I pass _this_ test I'll be ready to move on."

She would have laughed if she wasn't so flabbergasted. Women were literally trying to throw themselves on the stage to get to Draco and she couldn't really blame them.

Usually she was able to contain any jealousy she felt when other women undressed her wizard with their eyes. But to observe how they reacted when he was on display like this—all of them seeing what she suddenly felt belonged to her alone—well, it made her seethe.

She slowly crept through the masses to the platform where he danced. The closer she drew the more a newly formed but powerfully possessive ache tightened her chest. By the time she'd reached the edge his sweat slicked body shone brightly and her throat was dry with desire.

At that moment a muggle woman vaulted onto the stage and started doing some "forbidden dance" moves with Draco. Oblivious to Hermione's presence, he didn't discourage the tart, brushing up against her suggestively. As the woman grasped the edges of his g-string to pull it down, Hermione decided she had witnessed enough.

Without thinking of the repercussions, she drew out her wand and cast a spell that threw the woman off the stage (hard enough to cause alarm, but not injury as she landed on her friends). Draco looked in Hermione's direction and when he saw her his eyes widened in disbelief. At first he felt a surge of panic that she was upset with him. But then it dawned on him that she had just hexed another woman for him and he couldn't suppress a satisfied grin.

The music was still pumping and the throngs still watched Draco lustfully, but as far as he and Hermione were concerned, everyone had disappeared the moment their eyes locked.

He was about to stalk over to her, but she flew—literally—onto the stage and into his arms. Had she shown that kind of enthusiasm for flight at Hogwarts, doubtless she would have been much more proficient on a broom. Draco swirled her around in the air, like she was "Baby" and he was Johnny Castle and they were having the 'effin "Time of Their Lives." Then he put her down, not letting go. 4

"This has been the longest night of my life," he said.

"Mine too," she agreed.

And then as those around them roared—some with delight, some with envy—he pulled her firmly against him so she could feel just how ecstatic he was to see her. He moved his mouth over hers in a searing kiss, parting her lips and shoving his tongue inside aggressively. And the two vanished—courtesy of a quick spell from Blaise—in bright Vegas lights and a puff of sex-filled smoke.

TBC

**A/N:** I'd just like to say that the reason I think Snape will turn out to be a good guy in canon is I've decided that the only logical future for him is to become a Tibetan Monk and a Vegas Blackjack dealer. I'm sure J.K. Rowling will agree :p

**End notes:**

1 FUBAR: Fucked up beyond all recognition. Used here by Vin Diesel as a nod to his role in the very A-list film "Saving Private Ryan."

2 This line is uttered by Sigourney Weaver as the arrogant boss in "Working Girl."

3 From "Almost Famous" -- scene where a very high Billy Crudup proclaims this just before jumping off a roof into a swimming pool. I thought it would fit Draco in this situation.

4 "Nobody puts Hermione in a corner..." No really, this is from "Dirty Dancing."


	11. Possession

A/N: This chapter gets pretty sexual, I'd say it is a hard R, though I'm bad at judging these things. HOWEVER, if you want to read the scene without edits (I tried to tone it down for this site) you need to go to my live journal where I've posted a full NC-17 version.The link is on my author page. Honestly not sure if this edited version works...And if you think I need to tone it down even more for this site, input is appreciated. I wouldn't want to offend anyone!

Harry Potter awoke to what felt like the Hogwarts Express barreling through his brain. His mouth was parched, like he'd been gargling with sand.

He carefully lifted his pounding head, straining to see in the darkness. He realized he wasn't alone. Ginny was sleeping noisily next to him and Pansy, Mitchell and Ron were also nearby. They were in some kind of enclosed area. He sat up more, trying to get his bearings.

The space was tiny, just fitting their sleeping bags and not much else. Something nagged at Harry's mind besides the migraine-like pain. He couldn't remember even owning a sleeping bag. There was something he needed to recall, just out of grasp.

He looked around and saw the enclosure had a low ceiling that seemed to be made of canvas. _A tent_, he thought. _A Muggle one._ "What's going on?" he mumbled out loud, to nobody in particular.

Even in his disoriented state, he could tell it was light outside, the sun trying in vain to penetrate the protective covering above. Suddenly someone pushed back the flap directly in front of him. Harry couldn't see the person standing in the tent's opening because he was blinded by the painful glare that rushed in around the figure.

A booming voice was added to the assault. "Up and at 'em, Rise and shine troops!"

Harry winced as the dead came to life around him, groaning like zombies in tandem.

"What in bleeding fucking hell is going on?" cursed the ever eloquent Ron.

* * *

_Three hours earlier..._

Harry and the stag party cohorts were on the verge of passing out in the Red Room. Hermione had gone looking for Draco and the hens, (Harry had thought drunkenly that it would make a good band name), what seemed like hours ago.

The unbridled drinking and partying had shifted into low gear over the last half hour. Only blushing groom-to-be Mitchell Bulstrode remained lively, merrily chatting with a group of Muggle women in a corner of the room.

Just as Harry was about to join the already sleeping Neville, George and Ron, Hermione and the others finally arrived.

Fred, who had been nervously watching the entrance to the VIP lounge jumped up from his seat.

He made a beeline for Hermione, but Draco cut him off at the pass. "Don't get your knickers in a twist, Weasley. _My_ girlfriend is just fine," he said.

"Yes, I'm fine," she said, doing her best to ignore Draco's possessive tone. "Is everyone still here?"

"They are," answered Fred. Then he added softly, "Like innocent little lambs awaiting the slaughter."

"Excellent," said Draco, wringing his hands together in an evil fashion. He was doing an impressive Mr. Burns impersonation, despite the fact that he'd never seen "The Simpsons." He took Hermione's hand and pulled her toward the center of the room.

The others from the hen party had stumbled in behind them. Harry and Mitchell were quite surprised to find their respective witches flanking Vin Diesel. Mitchell looked past the threesome to the handsome wizard who was bringing up the rear.

"Blaise?" he gaped as the leather-clad Hogwarts alum sauntered up to his side.

"Bulstrode," he said, his voice full of obvious humor. "You're looking much... cockier... since we last met."

Mitchell was about to respond when Draco stood on a table, pulling Hermione up with him. He called for everyone to give him their attention.

"I'm sure you're all curious as to where we've been and how Mr. Diesel and Mr. Zabini came to join us," he nodded toward both men. "But right now Hermione and I, as the hosts of tonight's festivities, would like to present everyone who came out to celebrate Mitchell and Pansy with a special gift." He smiled at Hermione, who pulled out her wand and with a wave a tiny box appeared before each of the wizards and witches. The boxes were small and wrapped in shiny silver paper.

As they had planned ahead of time, Fred and George eagerly tore into the gifts and the others soon mimicked them. Had they been paying attention to Draco and Hermione, they would have noticed the matching Cheshire grins they wore. As it was, the lot were too busy tearing open their prizes: custom-made platinum Hogwarts rings, each with the crest of the receiver's house.

"Merlin, you must have spent a fortune," exclaimed Pansy, who placed the ring on her finger and then lifted her hand to admire its beauty.

Hermione watched and waited until everyone had put on their rings.

Then she took out her own and placed it on her finger. "Now, besides being tokens of our affection and friendship, these rings are also a special treat for those of you who were there for us on that day back in October when Draco and I finally got together." She gave Draco a bemused smile then looked pointedly at each of the eavesdroppers in turn. "I'm sure you had forgotten just how _touched_ we were to know how... _concerned_... each of you were in our affairs."

"We didn't forget," picked up Draco. "And that's why we have a little bonus just for the five of you."

Perhaps if there had been more time, or if he hadn't been reeling from the shock of seeing his lovely wife arm-and-arm with a Muggle action star only moments before, Harry would have reacted in time. The same could be said for Mitchell, who had caught Harry's eye as they exchanged a jolt of shared knowledge. But it was a second too late, and even as Mitchell began to pull off his ring...

...Draco and Hermione connected their rings together--Slytherin and Gryffindor. A streak of light erupted instantly from the rings worn by Harry, Ginny, Ron, Pansy and Mitchell. When each separate line met, the five vanished from the room.

Neville squeaked in surprise and the Muggle women screamed.

Luna remained calm as always, patting her husband on the shoulder. "Don't worry, darling. Ginny knows all about Alvin Mythlander and how to protect her pancreas."

In a moment of solidarity over their success, Draco shared a shout of victory with Hermione and the Twins.

Vin, who Draco had confided in earlier that night, laughed heartily as he pulled out his wand to perform yet another round of obliviate charms on unsuspecting Muggles. "I'll say this. You cats know how to party!"

* * *

When the Portkeys had activated they didn't just transport the fabulous five to a tent next to the Creevey family's infamous Winnebago. The rings had also been infused with a sleeping charm.

Which is why it took a few minutes in their hungover state for the five to put two and two together and realize that Draco and Hermione had finally acted on their promise for revenge. Only Mitchell seemed less astounded and more resigned.

Ron, meanwhile, continued to curse in confusion. What was particularly bewildering was that even in his discomfort he found himself compelled--thanks to that contract he'd unwittingly signed months earlier--to follow the barmy Muggle who had burst into the tent. He felt completely out of sorts with the urge to please the Muggle and hit him at the same time.

When he emerged from the tent he realized the man wasn't alone. There were four others--three children and a Muggle woman. Well, it appeared she was a woman, but it was difficult to see the person beneath the walking hairdo. Harry, despite growing up partly in the Muggle world, had never seen anything like the coiffure now before his eyes. He heard a bird caw nearby and almost expected the creature to fly out of the woman's massive tresses, like Athena emerging from the brain of Zeus.

When she spoke, the sound was as piercing as the mid-morning sun on his delicate senses.

"Timmy! Tommy! How many times do I have to tell you not to burn your sister's doll!" she screeched.

At that moment two terrors (it was obvious from the mischievous glint in their eyes) jumped out of the large mobile home near the tent. A little girl--she looked to be about four--was standing next to the human hairdo, clutching a doll whose own hair had been burned off. The girl was whimpering pathetically as a younger toddler scurried around aimlessly, like a tiny-sized drunkard.

The eldest of the children, a flame-haired girl, looked like a rancher as she herded the baby, preventing him from veering off dangerously toward any of the other tents or vehicles. Harry could see now that the family's camp was one of many in the dry desert heat.

The Muggle man winked at him. "I guess you're wondering who I am?"

"The question had crossed my mind," Harry said, calmly.

The man put out his hand, "Marty Creevey," he said, grinning like the school girls used to when they first met the famous Harry Potter. In fact, a lot like Colin Creevey once had years before. "It's a real honor to host you."

Harry was feeling beyond shell-shocked as he took the man's hand. "You're related to..."

"Colin and Dennis Creevey are my first cousins," he said. He was holding Harry's hand and shaking enthusiastically. The wizard noted the man's slight, Americanized British accent. "Of course I don't have the gift. My sister did, but I'm just a plain old Muggle," he said, somewhat sadly.

Mitchell had walked up next to them and Harry introduced him. The former witch surveyed the Muggle man, who was as tall and strong looking as the wizard Creevey brothers were tiny and weak. "Well then, I knew your runty little shite of a cousin was up to something with Granger. They don't know who they're dealing with."

Marty ignored the ominous comment. "All in good fun, and boy do we have some activities that will knock your socks off! But first lets get you kids some breakfast and introduce you to the family."

Mitchell wanted to say something snarky in response. Harry even noticed his mouth twitching with the insult that wouldn't come. Instead he smiled at Marty and said, "Well that sounds hunky-dory!"

Harry and the others just stared at Mitchell as Marty proceeded to introduce his wife Tricia, who bowed regally, her bouffant scraping the dirt as she leaned forward. "This is just so awesome!" she shrieked. The little girl with the unfortunate doll was holding her mother's leg for dear life. "This is Carly," the woman said. "She's a bit on the shy side."

Marty pointed to the twins (who appeared to have graduated from doll burning to bug torching), "I guess you're already familiar with my little hellions, they always make an entrance. And our eldest, Molly," he pointed to the red-haired girl who was still chasing the baby, "is just crazy about little Kipper."

Pansy looked at Mitchell and mouthed, "little Kipper?" followed by, "kill me now, love."

"So we're going to get some hash and eggs going for you folks," said Marty in his most ingratiating manner. "Feel free to go wash up." He pointed toward the side of the Winnebago, at what appeared to be a tap with a hose attached, then walked away.

Mitchell had a combined look of awe and disgust on his face. "I figured our little lovebirds would get us at some point, but I have to admire the range of their revenge. This is going to be bloody hell."

He grinned as he surveyed the others, the discombobulated Creevey family running about and the vast camp grounds. "Of course, I meant what I said. They really don't know who they've messed about with. I've got a few tricks up my sleeve."

Ron, who was holding his head--presumably to dull the pounding Harry knew he must be feeling--looked at Mitchell expectantly. "You've already got a plan to get back at them? Don't you think we should concentrate on getting out of here first?"

Pansy laughed uneasily next to her future husband. "No point in trying to get out, we're clearly stuck."

"Why do you say that?" asked Ron, though even the master of incomprehension sensed the answer.

"I don't know about you blokes," offered Ginny. "But I have a sudden urge to sing Kumbaya around a campfire and toast marshmallows."

"Right," said Ron, gobsmacked that he somehow understood exactly what Ginny was talking about and could easily recall the lyrics to the song. "So we're buggered. How exactly do we get back at those fuckers?"

* * *

At that moment, the aforementioned fuckers were waking up from--in Hermione's case--an uneasy slumber. Yes, the plan had gone off without a hitch, even with the late start. But the witch had other issues to deal with before she could properly gloat. 

Number one was telling Draco about the conversation she'd had with Fred and getting him to listen past the point where she could explain that she didn't return Fred's feelings. And then she'd have to answer for why she hadn't made this clear to Fred. Then of course there was that task. She knew she couldn't delay, as waiting would only exacerbate the situation.

Draco seemed blissfully unaware of Hermione's internal struggle. He snuggled next to her, kissing her neck as he awoke. She was lying with her back to him and he had his arm draped across her. "Mmm, I was having the most delicious dream." He moved his hips so she could feel what he must have started, but hadn't finished in the dream.

Hermione turned to face him, swallowing her burgeoning desire. "We need to..."

He cut her off with his lips, his tongue teasing hers open as he moved a hand down her flat belly, resting it lightly between her thighs. He released her lips for a breath. "We can talk later. Right now I need to show my appreciation for my number one fan."

Hermione arched a speculative eyebrow. "Your number one fan?"

"Well you did hex a Muggle woman in a fit of jealousy." His hand was tracing the edge of her knickers and she hissed. "If it wasn't for that pesky business of your nearly getting arrested, I would have shagged you rotten in Blaise's dressing room."

Hermione moaned against him as he slid a finger underneath the material, his feather-light touch causing shivers to run up and down her body. "I wouldn't have needed to hex the slag," she exhaled sharply as he began to stroke her in earnest. "If," she sputtered, "you hadn't been... shaking your arse for all the world to see."

"Well," he moved the finger playfully. "I had to give my adoring public what they craved, but I've saved a special performance just for you, love."

He slid his finger down again, making her flush. His mouth made a trail of kisses that slowly journeyed down her neck and across her collarbone. He paused and looked into her half-lidded eyes, adding a finger to his exploration. He licked his lips like she was a particularly tasty dessert he was about to devour.

Hermione had quickly devolved into that space she often visited with Draco--where every sense seemed on high alert except her mind, which was rendered foggy with sexual need.

He was taking his time, moving his fingers at an excruciatingly deliberate pace, denying her nipples the warmth of his mouth, so close she could feel his breath against her. As much as he loved to take her completely, there was something so intoxicating about holding back. It always made the release that much sweeter, like a warm summer downpour that would envelope them both.

Hermione enjoyed the game, but two could play and she reached down, scratching his thigh, but careful not to touch his hardness, which was pressed against her hip. He groaned and accelerated a beat.

He started to kiss her left breast while his free hand caressed the right one.

"Oh!" she moaned, her fingers digging into his thigh.

He didn't let up, continuing to toy with her.

"Draco that feels so..." she trailed off, meeting his attentive hand with her eager hips.

He removed his mouth from her so he could watch her writhe in pleasure beneath him, her uncombed hair wilder than usual, across the pillow with strands streaking her face. He relished the way she bit her lip, then cried out as the flush of her release washed over her features.

"You're so beautiful, you look so fucking beautiful when you give in to me." His voice was breathless. He sat up, giving her a chance to regain her composure, looking into her brown eyes. When she returned his gaze--the mindlessness of her "little death" over--he spoke again. "You're mine, Hermione. Every time I touch you," he leaned in for a quick kiss, nipping at her bottom lip. "Every time I taste you. You're mine." His eyes were shining with steely resolve.

While Hermione considered herself an independent woman, there was, for some reason, nothing that got her heart racing more than to hear that possessive tone in Draco's voice.

She was ready to surrender again, but first she needed to take back some control. She unexpectedly pushed him over, moving on top quickly. Before he could protest--not that he would have--she had moved her mouth between his legs, taking him with a precision that had him bucking against her in happy astonishment.

"Fuck."

She moved her lips smoothly. "We'll get to that in a minute. First I want to show you that you're mine too, Draco." She twirled her tongue, catching his eyes suggestively. "Don't forget it."

"Oh... Merlin... that's... uh..." he said, rather incoherently as Hermione's messy-curled head bobbed up and down.

As he felt himself nearing the edge he grabbed her by the hair and pulled her--somewhat violently--off him.

Draco sat up and said in a commanding tone, "Get on your knees."

She complied, sticking her arse tantalizingly high in the air and resting on her elbows as she leaned forward in front of him.

He moved behind her positioning himself between her thighs.

He ran his hands along her waist, holding her there and coveting her prone figure before him. He leaned over and whispered, his voice gruff with lust. "You may want to hold onto the bedpost, love."

She moved her hands up and grasped the post. As soon as she was steady, he pulled her back onto him.

Though they'd been together many times, it was still always overwhelming when Draco took her like that. The wizard had a cock to match his ego--making it quite the impressive bit of "equipment," suitable for both fanfic and porn. The first time they'd been together, before they'd shagged, Hermione had wondered if she could accommodate all... that.

Now he sent a jolt of pleasurable pain through her. Her hands clutched the bedpost. He hadn't been kidding when he told her to hold on. She was holding on for dear life. In a good way, but holding on nonetheless.

"You feel so good," he choked out.

Hermione was well beyond speaking, her fingernails digging into the wood of the post.

"Tell me you're mine," he ordered.

"I..." she couldn't get the words out.

"Tell me."

"I'm... yours," she blurted out between shallow breaths.

Draco seemed satisfied by the admission as he reached around to touch her.

She screamed as the second wave enraptured her.

"That's right," he continued. "You're mine, you're fucking mine."

With a yell he finished. He continued to move for a few moments, finally collapsing on shaky legs against her spent form. He took a minute to collect himself.

"You're mine," he repeated softly, but no less forcefully. "And there's no need to talk. You just have to tell the Tweasel."

TBC...


	12. Plan Overboard

**Disclaimer:** Nope, I don't own Harry Potter or any of these characters. This silly plot is mine.  
**Summary:** The Muggle adventure continues, various plotting, heartfelt discussions and misunderstandings. This is nearing its conclusion, just one or two more chapters. (Sequel to Friendly Fire.)  
**A/N:** This is the longest I've gone without updating because I've just been so busy. Hope this isn't too rusty!

Hermione had never seen Draco quite like this before. Sure he had jealous tendencies, but normally they didn't border on psychotic. She would have thought the fanbloodytastic—though slightly alarming in its intensity—morning shag would have calmed him, but it had done little to curb his aggressive behavior.

If it wasn't for the blond hair, he would have surely been mistaken for an Elvis impersonator with a bad attitude, given the way he snarled and curled his lip every time another man so much as glanced at _his witch_. Hermione wasn't sure which impulse was stronger: the one telling her to run away, fast; or the one urging her to pull him behind the nearest gaudy Vegas statue and ride him like he was the Commando 10,000 Broomstick.

As appealing as that second option sounded, there were more pressing matters at hand. First, they had to prepare for the expected "counter-attack" from Harry, Mitchell and company, now that the revenge scheme was fully in motion. To that end, Draco and Hermione were waiting for Fred and George at an "outdoor" cafe in the pseudo-piazza of the Venetian Hotel—a shopping and dining area inspired by the famous Italian city, (complete with faux blue skies and canals winding between posh boutiques).

Second, there was the _tiny_ issue of dealing with Fred's declaration of love. This went a long way in explaining Draco's regression from cultured Wizo sapien to a grunting, sneering (even more than usual) Wizo erectus—the most recent evolutionary ancestor to the "Modern" Wizard. Thus his current impulse to drag Hermione by her bushy hair into the nearest tattoo parlor and have "Property of Draco Malfoy" stamped on her arse.

Of course, Hermione Granger was _nobody's_ property! No way, Jose! No sirree, bub! She was an independent witch. (Well, except maybe in the throes of the greatest bleeding sex _ever_.) She brutally gnawed at her lip as the two Hermione's—take charge woman of the world and subservient love slave—waged war.

Meanwhile, Draco was staring daggers at a poofy opera singer performing nearby. The man had incurred the wizard's wrath a few minutes earlier when he'd approached Hermione and declared she was a "Bella cincia." (This translated roughly to "beautiful pheasant.")

_The guy was obviously not a real Italian,_ thought a peeved Draco. Not that Hermione had noticed his obvious inferiority. She'd cooed like some kind of silly bird when he announced he would dedicate his first aria to her beauty. Draco's audible growl in reaction had spurred her current lip-chewing contemplation.

Both were lost in their own thoughts and didn't notice the twins approaching until they parked themselves at the small café table. Draco's lip curled to alarmingly EVIL!Elvis proportions as George (though he thought it was Fred) sat next to Hermione and planted a chaste kiss on her cheek.

"Afternoon, luv," he said, ignoring the steam that billowed from Draco's ears.

Fred nodded uneasily at Draco and gave Hermione a sheepish grin. "Sorry we're late, but George was suffering from the mother of all hangovers."

Draco relaxed just slightly as he realized it was married George who'd kissed his woman hello, not the bloody git that was trying to steal her away.

The mood was decidedly tense until Hermione wisely brought up the subject of their meeting. "So then, I spoke to Colin earlier and he's planning to join Martin and the others at the Hoover Dam."

"Do you suppose they're there already?" asked Draco. "I can't tell what time it is in this bloody place." It was true. If you didn't step outside (and the oppressive heat was a good reason not to) it was hard to know what time of day it was in Vegas. Gamblers, revelers and scantily clad cocktail waitresses prowled the city 24/7.

Fortunately, Hermione had a watch. "It's about 15:00 now, I imagine they'll be there soon if they haven't already arrived. We'll need to chat with Colin when he comes back, but in the meantime I have a plan to deal with any revenge they might seek."

"To prevent it?" asked George.

"That would be ideal. But I'm guessing they'll strike hard and fast," she paused, blushing ever so slightly at the image the words "hard and fast" conjured in her mind—especially with Draco looking at her and licking his gorgeous lips. "I mean," she stammered, "we may not be able to avoid some kind of payback, but I have an idea of how we can get back."

"So," Fred said, the humor evident in his voice. "You have a plan to avenge their revenge on your revenge? What pray tell, will you do when they decide to avenge the revenge of their revenge on your revenge, hmmm?"

George, who was still suffering from the remains of the hangover to end all hangovers, dropped his head on the table like it was made of lead.

The attractive, cunning glint had once again entered Hermione's brown eyes. "As much fun as all this plotting has been, I'm fairly certain the coup de grâce I have in mind will bring our little cycle of vengeance to a fitting end."

George lifted his head warily and joined Fred and Draco as they gave the crafty witch their full attention.

His ravenous jealousy temporarily replaced by admiration, Draco smirked at Hermione. "Do tell, love."

* * *

Pansy Parkinson was having an epiphany. It was quite a moment for the pureblood witch. For at least half her life the lowliness of Muggles had been drilled into her brain. Even in the years since the second war she had stayed cloistered in the Wizard world. Sure, with changes to that society and friends like Hermione her vision had broadened. And yes, she found Muggle culture (at least the aspects of it that were currently all the rage in sophisticated pureblood circles) intriguing—it was why she'd chosen a Muggle-themed wedding in Las Vegas. Yet she'd never felt any real admiration and her childhood prejudices lingered. 

But now this creature before her, with her Lee Press-On Nails and gravity-defying hair, shook the foundation of those beliefs.

"And you don't use any magic? You didn't get your sister-in-law to charm these products?" she asked, reverently holding a gleaming bright purple can of something called Aqua Net Extra Super Hold Hairspray.

Tricia Creevey snorted, "Of course not! Besides, I'm not sure how the chemicals would react. Wouldn't want to blow up the house, hee hee!"

Pansy held the can, poised near her dirty-blonde locks. "You don't think I'd have some kind of _reaction_ to it?"

Ginny, who had been introduced to the wonders of Muggle beauty products years ago was watching with amusement. "Don't worry, Pans, if your hair falls out we can just magic it back!" she teased. At the horrified look on her friend's face she quickly added, "Kidding!"

Tricia—who had gotten a degree in cosmetology from the Athena Beauty School in Hackensack, New Jersey and worked at a salon—developed a wise and all-knowing tone to her high-pitched voice. "Oh, no worries dear. Marty's sister has been using this stuff for years and she's never had any problems, except, well, you're not a smoker are you?"

Pansy made a face, "Not a chance. That is one Muggle habit I would never pick up, so uncouth!"

"So then you have nothing to worry about," Tricia said. After a moment of reflection she added, "Though if you use as much as I do I suggest you stay away from any flames. I have a client at the salon and she told me her cousin knows a woman who torched her hair off, just like my little Carly's doll, when she went on a date with a chain smoker."

"So I guess you could say there were real sparks between them," offered Mitchell, who had been listening in on the conversation.

"Boo, Bulstrode! That was bad!" said Ginny, but despite her remark she giggled enthusiastically.

The four were gathered in the rear of the Winnebago, as they headed to the Hoover Dam. At this point they knew vague details about the contract that had bound them to the Creevey family. Harry was up in front, telling a fascinated Marty all about the horrid Dursleys and trying to get more clues to their captivity. The two youngest children were napping while the Creevey twins huddled in a corner working on a "project."

Ron sat nearby the EVIL!twins (he wondered if all twins were devious little pranksters) and tried to ignore the fact that the eldest Creevey brat, Molly, was staring at him.

Several factors compounded his unease with the little bint. First, there was the way she bossed around the other children—like a mini version of both his mother and Hermione. Then there was the red hair, not to mention the coincidence of her name. Worst of all, the girl seemed to have some sort of fixation on him—perhaps it was their shared ginger hues and freckled faces.

"Why aren't you married?" she suddenly questioned him—not in the benign manner of one who is merely curious, but with an accusatory edge to her rather deep voice.

"What?"

"All of your friends are, or going to be," she pointed out.

"So?" he was getting defensive. He felt like a helpless bunny cornered by a wolf.

"Is there something wrong with you? Don't you like girls?" she pressed.

He fought the urge to tell her to sod off, but something (perhaps the magic of the contract) held his temper in check. "I like _women_ just fine. Just haven't met the right one, is all. Besides, I have some single friends."

Molly rolled her eyes, "Please! It's so obvious you have commitment issues."

"Bloody hell, are you channeling my mum?"

"_You're_ the wizard, not _me_," she said, as if Ron was the most dimwitted person she'd ever met. "Maybe the problem is your hair."

"Wha..what?" he was incredulous now. "Maybe you should look in the mirror!"

The precocious _little angel_ merely rolled her eyes again. "The color's just fine. But you really need to get it cut."

The twins, who had started to pay attention to the exchange, stood up and looked at Ron with matching grins and scissors that had appeared as if by magic. "We can give you a trim!"

Ron jumped to his feet and stumbled backwards into the Winnebago's "kitchenette" area. "Stay back! I have a wand and I know how to use it!" he yelped. However, when he went to find said wand, he came up empty. "Where's my…Harry!"

His panicked scream woke both toddlers, who began crying loudly.

Tricia—her hands extended to preserve a fresh coat of nail polish—had moved in to defend the hapless wizard from her demented offspring. "Boys! How many times do I have to tell you to stay out of my hairdresser kit!" She snatched the scissors as the previously bold duo cowered. Then she turned toward Molly and snapped, "And you! Go check on Carly and Kip NOW!"

Harry had rushed back from the front of the vehicle to find a green-faced Ron (the motion sickness had hit him hard when he stood) who looked like he was about to join the babies and burst into tears.

"What's going on?"

"My wand! It's gone!"

Mitchell had walked over as well. "I'd be willing to wager all of our wands are gone," he said. "What's amazing is that none of us even thought about using magic to get out of here until just now."

"That bloody contract," spat Ron.

* * *

_There's no doubt about it,_ Draco thought proudly, as he listened to Hermione explain her plan for counter-vengeance. Whilst his witch possessed certain "unfortunate" Gryffindor characteristics, she was clearly Slytherin at heart. The realization comforted him on some level, as if to reaffirm she belonged with him, not the Tweasel. 

The three had been plotting for more than an hour, with Hermione doing most of the talking. At first there had been some opposition from the twins, mainly because at this point it wasn't clear the others knew of their involvement in the initial revenge. But the witch was extremely persuasive when she needed to be. And as with everything she did, it was well thought out.

"So what do you think?" Hermione asked as she finished telling them the last details of the scheme, anxious for their approval.

"I think your bloody brilliant," said George.

"Brightest witch of your age," added Fred.

"It's an honor to call you _my girlfriend_," piped in Draco.

Fred shot him a bitter glance, then turned back to Hermione. "Really, it is fantastic."

She blushed, "Thanks! Of course it isn't just me," she said, trying to be humble.

"It's completely you," Draco said, then leaned in and kissed her—not a peck but a full-on snog—as Fred's face turned as red as his hair and his twin whistled and looked away.

"Get a room!" George complained.

The lovers broke apart, Hermione's face flushed with embarrassment. She wasn't a public display of affection kind of gal, but Draco was just so…domineering…today.

Draco looked smug. He got up from the table. "So I'm going to head to the casino to get things rolling," he announced. He pulled Hermione up, causing her to fall into him roughly, and kissed her again—this time putting his hand possessively in the small of her back. When he finished thoroughly exploring her mouth with his tongue, he placed his lips near her ear. "I trust you'll take care of your _business_ now?" he whispered. His warm breath caused a rush through her, making her wish she could skip the business part and go back to the hotel suite.

"Yes, I will," she said as they pulled apart. She grabbed the back of the chair to steady her weak knees.

"Lads," Draco mock-bowed to the twins. "We'll catch up later when Creevey returns." He moved in for one last quick kiss with Hermione and then he was off.

She felt slightly breathless as she watched him go. She looked hesitantly at Fred and George. They were both standing now.

George observed the anxious behavior of his brother and the witch. He knew that Fred had professed his feelings the night before. He had a bad feeling he was about to get his heart handed back to him on a cold platter.

Hermione steeled herself for the inevitable. "George, I'll see you later for dinner." Then she looked at Fred. "We need to talk."

"Right then," said George, creeping away. "I'll be um, shopping. Fred, why don't you find me when you and Hermione are finished."

Fred winced at his brother's choice of words. He wasn't an idiot, he could see the heat radiating off of Hermione and Malfoy the entire time they were together. "Sounds good," he said weakly, the confidence he'd felt the night before completely gone.

* * *

Harry and Ron were standing on the observation deck of the Hoover Dam. The Creeveys and their reluctant passengers had arrived at the landmark about an hour earlier. Following the "excitement" in the Winnebago, the lot of them were glad to be out of that confined space. 

"Nope, there's no 'effin way he could have survived that drop," said Ron.

"It's only a movie, Ron. And besides, it wasn't even filmed here," protested Harry.

"Doesn't matter, I still say there's no way he survives that fall. He's not Superdude."

"That's Superman! And the dam he falls from in _The Fugitive_ isn't as high up as this one."

"Well, I still think you'd have to be daft to believe a bloke could just swim off after that," argued Ron.

"He's no ordinary bloke, mate he's Harrison Ford and..." Harry was about to make another point, something about the actor's ability to not only survive perilous leaps, but outrun trains and explosions, when he spotted Colin Creevey standing just outside of the souvenir shop.

"Creevey!"

Not knowing Harry was talking about the Wizard member of the crazy clan, Ron went pale. "I thought we'd lost them!"

"Not those blasted Muggles," said Mitchell, who had walked up with Ginny and Pansy. "The pain in the arse we went to school with."

Colin came over to the group. He looked around nervously, "Oi there, how's things?"

"How's things? How's things? Are you mental? How in Merlin's name do you think they are?" asked Ron, who was clearly the most on edge of the five.

Based on his sudden surprise appearance, it seemed Colin had apparated from Vegas--which didn't do much to appease the irate, wandless, complacent-beyond-his-control victim.

"What are you doing here, Creevey?" asked Mitchell, sounding slightly less cheesed off than Ron. It wasn't that they were having a terrible time with the Muggles. It was the complete lack of control that burned them. Only Pansy--her hair having reached epic heights thanks to Tricia and her Aqua Net--was in good spirits and actually willing to admit she was enjoying the experience. But it didn't matter. They could have been partying in paradise and being treated like royalty and they'd still need to get back at Hermione and Draco for duping them. It was a matter of principle.

Colin briefly considered getting out of there, but the knowledge that they were wandless put him erroneously at ease. "Just checking in to make sure my family is showing you folks a good time."

"More like spying, you traitorous little shite," said Ginny.

"Well, you should know," he countered.

Mitchell gave Colin the once over before grabbing him by the collar. The vertically-challenged wizard squeaked in shock. Even if Mitchell had still been a woman, he was much larger and stronger. "If you think we're harmless just because we can't use magic on your skinny arse, you're grievously mistaken," he said.

"I can't do anything to break the contract," he said quickly.

"Breaking it isn't what we had in mind," Mitchell said. "First we'd like to know who else besides you, Granger and Malfoy put us here."

"There was no one else," he chirped rather unconvincingly. As frightened as he was of Mitchell, he feared that revealing the Weasley twins' involvement would have even greater repercussions.

"I've got to say, Creevey, you're a far better liar with a studio audience to back you up," said Mitchell. "Now tell us everything or you'll be doing more than hosting the next episode of _Strange Encounters_"

* * *

Fred and Hermione were floating on a gondola through the tacky canal system of fake Venice. Thankfully, their gondolier had stopped singing his mournfully romantic songs and they were finally able to talk. Though Fred wouldn't have minded the illusion of a romantic date lasting a bit longer. 

Hermione swallowed her fear and began, "Listen, I owe you a massive apology."

He put up his hands. "Don't, Hermione. I'm the one who put you in this bloody awkward position." He laughed nervously, because they were both emotionally and physically uncomfortable at the moment. "I never should have said the things I said last night. They were meant to be spoken years ago, but not now."

She couldn't disagree. "That may be true, but I don't know that it would have made a difference. We've both changed a lot over the years. I do love you and always will, but what happened last night made me see that it isn't...that way. You're family, Fred." He didn't respond, just put his head down, so she continued. "I think perhaps you feel the same way, otherwise you wouldn't have needed to see me with Draco to have this revelation. You would have known."

Fred looked up. "I don't think of you as a sister, Hermione. That's not what this is."

"Cousin?"

"Maybe, a very distant cousin," he conceded. "Look, it makes no difference because you're obviously bonkers for Malfoy. I don't quite get it, but I accept it. I have to."

"I'm really sorry," she said.

"Don't be. You're happy. I've known it for months and it just made me insane to recognize that I wasn't the cause of it. What I did last night was truly selfish, because I know you and Malfoy just...fit."

"You think so?" she asked, hesitantly.

"I wouldn't admit something so bleeding...disturbing...it if I didn't believe it," he said.

"Fred..."

"Don't get your knickers in a twist, Hermione. I'll be just cushty in no time." He paused, then grinned like he was batty. "It could be worse! I mean, he's not half bad for a Slytherin. He's a clever bloke. Imagine the horror if you were preggers with say, Marcus Flint's love child."

Hermione laughed so hard that the tiny gondola teetered precariously, threatening to spill them into the murky water. "Merlin, do you know he actually tried to chat me up at a party Pansy had a while back, before I started with Draco."

"See, I already feel better knowing that travesty was avoided."

They smiled at each other warmly and for the first time in a while, both felt completely at ease.

Neither spoke and the gondolier took it as his cue to break into song again. "O sole mio," he burst out, as the boat neared a bridge.

Hermione and Fred didn't see that Draco was standing on top of it, seething as he watched them from above. To him, their cozy appearance made it look as if Hermione hadn't brushed the Tweasel off, but encouraged him. Without thinking, he pulled out his wand and in a flash the comfortable pair--and their singing gondolier--were thrown overboard.

The water was shallow enough to stand and as Hermione pushed her sopping curls from her face, she looked up to see Draco storming off. Fred had spotted him as well. Perhaps a day or even an hour ago he would have felt a sense of triumph and would have clung to the mistaken belief that an angry Malfoy meant he had a chance. But seeing the despair in Hermione's eyes, he knew more clearly than ever before, that she belonged with the blond prat and nobody else.

"Don't worry, luv. I'll get him sorted," he said as he helped her out of the water and pushed himself up next to her. She looked unsure, so he went on. "It's my fault this happened."

"What if he doesn't come around?"

"He will, luv." He hugged her then added gingerly, "And if not, perhaps it's not too late to ring Flint?"

**Endnote:** So like I said above, this is definitely nearing the end. I've grown rather fond of my particularly insane interpretation of these characters, so perhaps I may visit them again down the road. One note on this chapter. The character of Molly Creevey is based on a young cousin of mine, who happens to be named Molly and has red hair. Her conversation with Ron is actually very similar to one she once had with me. Yikes! Oh and don't panic, Fred will get things sorted for Hermione and Draco :)


	13. Wedding Day, Part I

**Disclaimer:** Nope, I don't own Harry Potter or any of these characters. This plot is mine.  
**Summary:** The big day arrives. Will Draco and Hermione make up? Will the "fab five" seek revenge? Will I ever finish this story? Stay tuned...(Sequel to Friendly Fire.)  
**A/N:** Many thanks to beta readers **reetinkerbell** and **chanteur dombre**.

* * *

In the days leading up to the Wizarding world's "Wedding of the Year," Draco Malfoy was being an insufferable prat. Yes, even more so than usual. On the Harry Potter "prat-o-meter" – where one equaled "giddy as a schoolgirl" and 10 was for "total prat" – he had reached a scale-shattering 20. 

Despite numerous attempts by Hermione and Fred to explain that they weren't having a passionate affair right beneath his aristocratic, pointy nose, he refused to listen. Instead, once the revenge-of-the-expected-revenge scheme had been worked out, he avoided them like the plague.

Much to Hermione's chagrin, that included the evening hours. Her only comfort when Draco failed to show up at their hotel room three nights in a row was to discover he'd been crashing on the floor of Neville and Luna's suite. Neville was quite put out, but suffered in silence. He feared Draco's insults and threats, even though it had been years since the Slytherin had _maliciously_ tormented him. (For "old time's sake" Draco was still known to _playfully_ torment Neville.) Luna didn't complain, since she considered it more protection from pancreas-stealing Vampshamswipers. 1

While relieved Draco hadn't been sleeping on the streets (or worse, with someone else – well, someone else besides their married friends), Hermione was enraged by his infantile behaviour. Even so, she missed him terribly. It was something she couldn't reconcile in her logical mind. How could someone be the bane of her existence _and_ all she lived for?

Hermione was also on edge since Mitchell, Pansy, Harry, Ginny and Ron had returned from their Muggle holiday. They seemed to have taken the misadventure suspiciously in stride. Pansy positively gushed about the Creeveys and had given Marty and Tricia a last minute invitation to the wedding. It wasn't natural. Hermione was sure it was either a sign of the apocalypse, or worse, they were planning something _really_ awful for her and Draco.

_Well, fine_, she thought rather hysterically. She was ready for whatever they were going to dish out. But she didn't have much time to worry, as revenge had to be pushed to the side to make room for pre-wedding activities. With Hermione's duties as best "man" and Draco's as "maid" of honour, they didn't have a minute to spare.

Before the wedding day arrived, they'd seen each other only briefly – usually with Draco heading quickly in the opposite direction, to Hermione's annoyance. Now that the big day was here, they would have to spend most of it together. Even if she had to tie Draco up (Hermione pondered dreamily on _that_ image), she was determined to get his stubborn arse to listen.

However, that heart-to-heart (and potentially S&M) discussion would have to come later. First they had to deal with Presto, the flamboyant Wizard-wedding planner. (And really, if you expected me to put a "stoic" wedding planner in _this_ fic then you probably stumbled here by accident. Be afraid, be _very_ afraid.)

"DAH-links," the pink-haired wizard said in his obviously fake Euro-trash accent. Despite his best efforts to hide it, "Monsieur" Presto was as American as a Yankee Doodle Dandy. "Ve moost verk out zee seating!"

Draco squelched the urge to slap the wanker silly. Already in a rancid mood thanks to the situation with Hermione, he was even more churlish since Pansy roused him early that morning, begging him and Hermione to handle Presto. Apparently, the bride-to-be needed to devote the entire day to "getting beautiful." She was in a panic over the Creevey family being seated next to her parent's table. As much as she actually liked the Muggles, there was no way her mother would _ever_ forgive that faux pas. So of course this threw the entire seating chart into disarray. Things were simple before the war, when pureblood wizards wouldn't dream of inviting any other kind to their social gatherings. Now that everybody got along (or at least pretended to), there were numerous opportunities to piss off and offend. The "high class" pureblood families couldn't be near the "common" pureblood families; the half-bloods couldn't be too close to the quarter-bloods since there was, um, "bad blood" between those two groups. And of course _nobody_ wanted to be near the Muggle-borns, so they had the shittiest tables, either next to the band or the kitchen. Besides the Creeveys, no other Muggles had been invited.

"Why don't we put them at the table with Remus and Tonks?" Hermione suggested. "Then we can just move Mr. and Mrs. Weasley to the table next to the Parkinsons."

"But Molly Weasley and Primrose Parkinson despise each other," said Draco, in a bored tone.

"Zen perheeps vay kun zend fwences!" offered Presto, managing to sound like the lovechild of Elmer Fudd and Deter from "Sprockets."

_What the?_ Draco looked up from the chart and locked eyes with Hermione. For the first time since the "Gondola" incident they shared a moment of silent accord. Unfortunately, it didn't last.

"That's fine with me," said Hermione. "Let them all zend fwences." She really couldn't be arsed with the finer details of this bloody wedding any longer. Especially when she had more important things to sort out. "Draco, I think it's about time we got ready, wouldn't want to be late." She tried not to sound bossy, but failed miserably.

Draco grimaced. Until now he'd managed to avoid the fact his wedding "outfit" was in their shared suite. He wanted to evade the tongue-lashing (not of the 'enjoyable, nudity to follow' variety) Hermione was sure to deliver once she had him alone. "Maybe you should go get ready first, I can help, err, Presto here with any last details." He could barely believe he'd just offered to spend more time with the twit.

In fact, he instantly regretted making the comment when Presto literally squealed, "Vunderbar! Vee kun goo see zee flooers!"

Draco suddenly grew nostalgic for his old pals Tom and John and their mental, but rather fitting worship of his supreme arse.

Hermione stood up in a huff, exasperated by Draco's childish behaviour. "Cheers then, I'm sure you and Presto will have a cracking good time inspecting the flooers! See you at the bleeding wedding!"

"Yes, I'm sure I'll see you there with your Tweasley _date_," he shot back, voice full of contempt.

She mentally burned a hole through his brain, then left, slamming the door loudly.

"Vell!" exclaimed Presto.

* * *

As she stormed back to the hotel room, a stream of expletives spewed from the delicate bow-shaped mouth of _saintly_ Hermione Granger. "Bloody-fucking-jealous-ARSEHOLE-stupid-f erret... Argh!" she muttered loudly, causing a group of Muggles to move aside and let the crazy lady pass.

Hermione was so consumed by her thoughts she didn't see Harry and Mitchell duck behind a tall, busty cocktail waitress near the elevator. They watched as the angry witch swept past.

"You don't think she saw us, do you?" asked Harry.

Mitchell snickered, "Not a chance. She was too busy chatting with herself. The little row she's having with Draco couldn't have been timed better, neither of them can think straight."

Harry exhaled deeply.

"What?" questioned Mitchell. He studied his friend for a moment. "Oh nooooo, wonder boy, don't you start going all Gryffindor on me now."

"I won't, it's just I feel a bit guilty. We didn't have such an awful time with the Creeveys – in fact your future wife absolutely loved the experience." He motioned toward the elevator Hermione had disappeared into. "And besides, I'm worried about Hermione. She's really gutted over Malfoy."

Mitchell grabbed Harry and knocked him back against a Double Diamond slot machine. "Listen, Potter. First of all, we _have to_ get back at them for brainwashing us. Need I remind you we just spent three days traveling through the desert with a family of Muggles? Now, they weren't _that_ bad considering who their wizard cousins are, but that kind of manipulation cannot go unanswered. Besides, Draco and Hermione _expect_ us to strike back. If we didn't they'd be disappointed." He paused, considering his next words carefully. "And you know what? I do feel for Hermione. I've known Draco my entire life and he can be the most obnoxious, obstinate prick. He's bloody lucky she tolerates his whiny antics. Perhaps our little payback will embarrass them, but it's exactly the sort thing that will knock some sense into that idiot's empty blond head." His speech finished, he let go and backed away.

Harry straightened his waistcoat and looked thoughtfully at the bullish Bulstrode. "You know what, mate? I'm glad your a bloke now, cause you made the hairiest witch _ever_."

Mitchell winked at him. "Sod off, nancy-boy."

* * *

Draco took his time before he went up to the suite, but there was only so much of Presto he could tolerate. Plus, he did have to get ready for the wedding.

When he finally opened the door to their room Hermione was still inside. She stood in front of the full-length mirrored wall trying to tame her unruly hair. She was already dressed, and the wizard had to keep his eyes from bulging or his tongue from rolling onto the floor like a cartoon character. The witch looked mad hot. Not only that, the vision of babeliciousness in front of him was eerily similar to his rather prophetic dream from months back, before they had gotten together. With the barely-there material of her leopard-skin "Sheena" ensemble, she looked like the lioness from his subconscious. Well, okay, the leopardess... close enough!

She spied his open-mouthed expression in the reflection, gave him a pointed look, then pretended he wasn't there. _Have a little taste of your own medicine, prat-boy._

Draco continued to stare for a beat, then shook off his lust. He went to the closet and grabbed his own "formal wear," then rushed past her into the loo. _I'll show little miss legs-that-don't-quit! Two can play at the so-fucking-hot-the-fangirls-squee game!"_

Exactly three minutes later Draco emerged, in all his loin-clothed glory. Hermione looked up from where she was affixing a 80s-era Olivia Newton-John bandana around her forehead. Her mouth went dryer than the Sahara. _Whoa,_ she thought. Thankfully, she hadn't said it out loud. The sight of Draco in tiny strips of animal-skin and _nothing_ else hijacked her normally eloquent brain. She was left with a mere Keanu-like ability to articulate.

They both gaped at each other for a good minute in the ultimate carnal staring contest, each tempting the other to break down, stalk across the room and end the heated tension.

Ultimately, neither gave in before a loud knock abruptly ended their battle of libidinous wills.

Draco walked over and opened the door to find Colin Creevey and the Weasley twins waiting on the other side. While Hermione's visage made him horny-as-hell, the sight before him now provided a cold splash of water. As the astute reader may have guessed, Pansy and Mitchell had chosen "The Beastmaster" Muggle movie theme for their nuptials. Colin was dressed as one of the film's sword-wielding priests, while Fred and George were garbed as the hero's trusted ferrets, Kodo and Podo. "Sweet Merlin," Draco choked out, then doubled over laughing.

This went on for about a minute.

"Yeah, keep laughing, Tarzan. We know who the real ferret is," said George. But his put-upon demeanour while dressed in the furry costume only made Draco laugh harder, until he was hyperventilating.

That ended when Hermione joined the four at the entranceway. Draco suddenly lost his sense of humour and his Elvis sneer reappeared as the others ogled her jungle-girl look. She rolled her eyes, "Come on, let's just get this over with."

She started to move into the hallway, but Colin blocked her way. "Actually, I've got a Portkey that will take us down."

He sounded nervous and Hermione noticed beads of sweat beneath his magicked-on Hare Krishna-style ponytail. "What's going on, Colin?"

"Nuh... nothing. You just look bluh...bloody fantastic," he said. He winced at the glare from Draco, but his diversionary tactic worked. The three wizards assumed he was acting anxious because of Hermione's scantily dressed appearance. Which wasn't a complete lie.

"Alright, put your fucking eyes back in your head and let's get on with it!" Draco roared.

Hermione felt heat rush through her at his jealous tone. But that's not all that went through her mind. Unlike the others, Colin didn't fool her. She was certain that whatever was on the other side of the Portkey would lead to revenge. _Didn't take them very long,_ she thought. And she grinned, because their quick response fit into her own plans perfectly.

"Right, then," she said, and reached out for the Portkey.

* * *

"I knew Primrose would arrange a most tasteful affair for Pans and Mill...Mitchell," said the regal Narcissa Malfoy, as she appraised the enormous banquet hall. She reached out and daintily plucked an hors d'œuvre from a tray as it magically floated by.

"Oh, I quite agree," said Claudine Greengrass. "Much improved from the Baddock wedding – that was positively _ghastly_. I was a bit concerned when I heard they were having it _here_. Apparently Pansy was dead-set on a Muggle theme! The silly girl had read in some magazine that it was the 'chic and trendy' thing these days! Thank Morgan Le Fay her mother knocked some sense into her! Can you just _imagine_ the embarrassment?"

Narcissa nodded in snobbish solidarity. "Well I for one am _relieved_, since Draco's in the wedding party."

"Is he still traipsing about with that Muggle-born?" asked Claudine, making a "bitter Butterbeer" face as she said it.

At the reference to Hermione, the elegant witch made a noise that her friend mistook for anguish. In fact, she'd just muttered a rather vulgar cuss under her breath.

"Oh, Cissy," Claudine purred with ingratiatingly fake concern. She put a comforting – though rather stiff – hand on Narcissa's shoulder. "There, there, I'm sure it's just a phase." She tried to hide a catty smirk at the icy blonde's _unfortunate_ predicament. As long as the young Malfoy heir insisted on dating the Mudblood slag, it lowered the family's social status and raised her own.

Narcissa graciously accepted Claudine's sympathies, while seething inside. _My son could marry a House-Elf and I'd still be classier than you, bitch,_ she thought bitterly.

Their unspoken rivalry was interrupted as Molly and Arthur Weasley walked by, nodding cursory hellos. "Did you see those robes she was wearing?" asked Claudine.

"Tacky," offered Narcissa.

Ah yes, nothing like high-class pureblood manners.

* * *

Wizards and witches filed into the splendid hall. Each gasped at the impressive size and spectacle before them. In the middle of the ballroom hung a massive, moving chandelier. Instead of lights, it was made up of hundreds of tiny glowing fairies. Gorgeous bouquets of magical flowers danced through the air like a scene from "Fantasia." At the centre of the room stood a platform where Pansy and Mitchell welcomed their guests. A tradition of pureblood weddings was to hold a "greeting" before the magical rites of betrothal were performed.

"Are you ready to shake this party up, love?" Mitchell whispered, just as the current Minister of Magic, Brutus Fargelinas walked off with his wife.

Pansy smiled at her husband-to-be. "Definitely. I'm bored out of my fucking mind." She laughed. "My mum will _never_ forgive me."

"Like you care," he grinned, then pulled out his wand. "Appareo!" he yelled, and in a flash of light, "The Beastmaster" crew appeared at the center of the platform, a shocking feast for more than 300 sets of eyes.

Across the room, Narcissa had been making a nasty remark about her _awful_ niece Nymphadora and the half-blood's _beastly_ husband. She stopped mid-snark and gawked in a most undignified manner at the new arrivals. There was no mistaking Draco, his gleaming hair – so much like her own – standing out above the speechless crowd. Of course, there were other things to notice in addition to his golden locks.

Claudine couldn't stop herself from smiling smugly.

* * *

Fanon!Blaise Zabini was getting tired of this shit. He was going to quit this bloody gig _any day_. Ever since that cow had decided to describe Canon!Blaise he'd been made into a cheap "Harry Potter" character wannabe. And now, adding insult to injury, he'd been reduced to _this_. Oh sure, there were still plenty of fangirls who preferred has gorgeous, dark-curly hair and violet-eyed Italian looks. But more and more they deserted him, "intrigued" by the exotic creation that stupid bint had conjured up. He sighed, adjusting his sideburns as he stared into the mirror. He stood up and swiveled his hips, imagining how all the witches would swoon at his moves. _At least I'm still the most shaggable character in fan fiction._

Enraptured by his own mouth-watering beauty, he didn't hear the pop of Apparition. By the time he realized he wasn't alone, it was too late.

TBC

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**Endnotes:**

1 As Luna explained in Part 8 "Margaritaville," The Vampshamswiper is "considered a magical creature in the same family as the Vampire, but it doesn't actually contain any of its own magic. It needs to feed on magical pancreatic juices. Otherwise, it could be out-spelled by a squib." This is according to Alvin Mythlander, author of "Not Quite Magical Creatures and How they Subsist."

And yes, I lied when I said this would be the last chapter. This story won't allow me to end it without a fight.


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